Devil Inside
by Marikosan-7
Summary: Film Noir, set in 1930's New York. Jimmy Logan: P.I. is given a seemingly simple case of following the wife of a jealous husband. But soon organised crime, blackmail and political corruption muddy the waters. OroroLogan FINISHED
1. Chapter1

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. (Plus nor do I own any of the lyrics belonging to the songs 'Blue Moon' or 'I'm through with love')  
  
Author's Note: This is a gritty film noir type detective story involving AU characters from the X-Men. As it is quite a dark piece (being Noir) some of the X-characters I use will do things that their usual comicverse personas would not. But having said that the essence of all the characters will be as true to what makes them individually them as I can be. Hope you can enjoy this as a bit of alternative fun, M'ikosan7,xx.  
  
Devil Inside.  
  
Chapter.1.  
  
'Smokey Jack's Jazz Club', New York City's Lower East Side, 1939....  
  
The rain had been lashing the streets of New York for days now. It's relentless drive making the sidewalks and roads of the infamous city shimmer. These were dark days for people the world over and the 'City that Never Sleeps' was no exception. Organized crime, political corruption and illegal traffic in all manner of things were rapidly turning the city of so many people's hopes and dreams into a nightmare. These were dark days indeed...  
  
Jimmy 'The Wolverine' Logan: Private Investigator pried apart the thin metal blinds of the back room window with his thumb and his index finger. He looked out onto the dark ally way behind one of the city's most frequented and notorious clubs. Watching with jaded eyes as the steam from underground vents billowed into the ally, rising up into the streetlamp- fogged, orange night. His dull eyes flicked to the right as he heard somewhere further down the ally, a cat screech as the noisy clatter of falling trashcans echoed off the grimy, wet walls.  
  
Still gazing through the small opening, Logan brought his cigar he held in his right hand to his lips. Drawing on it slowly he removed his fingers from the blinds, letting them fall back together with a ping. The continued to reverberate as he turned his back to the window, bringing his free hand up to his neck tie that was already practically draped about his throat he tugged at the knot a couple of times, loosening it some more. It didn't exactly do much to enhance his already shabby appearance. He hadn't shaved for days and his hair that was usually a thick mess was now so bad that it stuck out in two distinctive tufts at either side of his head.  
  
Glancing around the dimly lit office, he happened to catch sight of a clock on the far wall. It was twelve thirty already----his client was running half an hour late. He scowled as he turned his eyes down from the clock and moved further into the tiny space that contained nothing more than a desk, three tall, grey filing cabinets and a green velvet sofa. If there was one thing that Logan P. I. couldn't abide, it was when people kept him waiting. A strange trait to have when your profession relied on your ability to play the waiting game, above all else.  
  
Logan perched himself on the corner of the large, wooden desk, flipping the edges of his tatty suite jacket up and hitching his trousers at the knee slightly as he sat. He eyed its cluttered contents idly, various folders, documents, tax accounts---that were probably as 'doctored' as the day is long. Then he noticed the three day old New York Times folded in half right next to him. Picking it up, he gave it a short, sharp shake to unfold it. Scanning the banner headline a small and exceptionally rare grin tugged at the corners of his mouth around his smouldering cigar that was gripped between his teeth.  
  
'GANGLAND WAR CONTINUES: THREE MEMBERS OF THE MANCINI FAMILY FOUND SHOT DEAD.'  
  
Logan plucked his cigar from his mouth, securing it between the bottom of his middle and index finger as he glanced through the article. Not that he didn't know all the details already; in fact he knew a damn sight more about the incident than the tired hacks at the Times---or the NYPD. But being a P.I it helped to keep abreast of such matters, you never knew when such information might come in handy. But his attention was drawn from the paper when he heard voices close at the other side of the office door. He turned his head to it, watching it intently as he absently dropped the paper back onto the desk, climbing down from it as he did so.  
  
"I know Victor, but what can you do, heh?" The door opened quickly and a rather dapper looking gentleman entered the room, but his attention was still on the other man he was having the conversation with. His hand still lay on the door knob as he finished up whatever business he'd had with the other man. He was tall, very tall in fact, at least seven foot Logan estimated casually---probably hired muscle. Most club owners in this town tended to have them these days, after all clubs were becoming an increasingly dangerous business. The large blond man said nothing, he simply shrugged his extraordinarily broad shoulders and walked of back into the swell of the club.  
  
The darker gentleman came into the room then, shutting the door firmly behind him, cutting off the loud flow of conversation and laughter, the clatter of drinking glasses and the gentle lull of the five piece jazz band that were playing. The man made no move from the door for a moment, regarding Logan from the other side of the room. In complete contrast to Logan, his client was smartly turned out in a fawn coloured, expertly tailored suit and a neat pair of shinning, brown leather loafers. He hand long, jet black hair that was slicked back over his scalp and tied at the neck. Logan studied the man's features closely, he did this every time he met someone new, especially clients, it had become second nature. His face was rather long and whilst not exactly thin he did have very sharp, angular features. His eyes very dark, almost as dark as his hair from this distance and a thin, pencil-style moustache ran atop his upper lip.  
  
"Jimmy Logan, P. I. I presume?" The man gave Logan a lopsided smile by way of a greeting but it was merely a formality, devoid of any true warmth.  
  
Logan nodded, just barely, in response. He then turned his body fully in the direction of the other man and asked in his deep, gravelly tone, "Yeah, now what do you want me for." He placed his cigar back between his lips, but didn't smoke it.  
  
The darker man gave a short laugh, taking a few steps toward where Logan stood, he pulled a slim silver case from his jacket pocket. He pressed his finger lightly on the catch at it side and with a casual flick of his wrist flipped its lid open. A neat row of filterless cigarettes lay inside and he picked one out carefully, replacing the case in his pocket.  
  
"Straight down to business----I like that." He said slowly as he made the rest of the way over to Logan and extended his hand out to the smaller man. "Forge, the name's Kenny Forge."  
  
After a short pause Logan excepted Kenny Forge's offered hand, gripping it a little too tight, like he always did. He was a firm believer in the handshake being the measure of a man, so he never wanted to give an inaccurate first impression of himself. Forge gave Logan another cold smile as he released his hand. Logan noted the way he flexed it a couple of times afterwards and it almost brought a smile to his face then.  
  
"So what's this about Mr. Forge?" Logan really did prefer to get straight down to it, like Forge had observed, he wasn't one for idle pleasantries or small talk. Not that he got much of that in his line of work.  
  
"Why don't I just show you Mr. Logan?" Forge reached down onto his desk, picking up a book of matches. Snapping one off it hissed into life a he drew it across the rough strip at the top of the book. He then retrieved the decanter of scotch and a small, crystal glass. Forge held it up to Logan, offering him one too but Logan shook his head briefly, making Forge's eyes widen ever-so slightly in mild surprise. From what he'd heard Jimmy 'The Wolverine' Logan was quite the drinker. He may have been one of, if not the best in the P. I business, but quite frankly he was rumoured to be a first class drunk. That was the reason he'd been kicked off the force-- --amongst other things---allegedly.  
  
"That suites me----and by the way, it's just Logan. None of this 'mister' crap." He exhaled a long stream of thick smoke as he spoke.  
  
Forge laughed shortly, pouring his drink he said, "Logan it is then, and you can do me the same courtesy. Now if you'll kindly follow me." He placed the decanter back on its small silver holding basket and motioned his arm in the direction of the door as he walked swiftly past Logan.  
  
Logan plucked his cigar from his mouth once more, stubbing it out in a large white ivory ashtray that sat on the desk. Thrusting both hands into the trouser pockets of his extremely ill-fitting grey suite he followed Forge's lead from the room.  
  
* * *  
  
The club was a packed noisy hive of activity. Large groups of people were gathered around circular dinner tables that filled up the main area of the sizable room. Each one covered with a pristinely white table cloth and in its centre a sat a small candle in a red clear glass 'vase'. The murky light they afforded only served to highlight the smoky atmosphere, practically every patron holding one. Although the men all seemed to be smoking on big, fat cigars and the ladies attempting to look fashionably sophisticated with slim white cigarettes in long black holders in their slim silk-gloved hands.  
  
Logan scanned the room, making note of its cliental. Seeing all these Park Avenue wannabes swanning around in their fashionable but undoubtedly knock- off clothing, trying their best to affect an air of dapper sophistication made him nearly laugh out loud. He knew some of them, or at least he knew of them and they were every bit as gutter trash as he was. It was just that Logan never told any one he was anything else. In an odd way, that made him feel above them.  
  
Forge led him through the throng and to the tables near the stage, stopping occasionally to talk to friends and acquaintances along the way. As soon as they'd reached the table right at the front a waiter, dressed in a claret coloured uniform, a white cloth draped over his left arm and a tray with a bottle of champagne scuttled over to the them. He looked like he was just out of short pants, nowhere near old enough to be working in a joint like this. That's why he'd been swift to react to the boss's presence, eager to impress.  
  
"Shall I pour?" The boy said in a rather high pitched voice as he set the two flutes and the bottle down in front f the men.  
  
"No, we're fine Tony." Forge didn't even look at the boy as he waved him away dismissively, but he went away satisfied. At least the boss knew his name.  
  
"Best seats in the house!" Forge said as he poured the drinks, even though he was yet to start on the one he'd fixed himself in the office. He handed Logan the first flute, he took it but immediately set it down in front of him. Forge grinned at the action, thinking maybe Logan was always on his best behaviour in front of his clients, true mark of a seasoned alcoholic. He sat back in his chair, sipping from his glass as he undid the buttons of his jacket, making himself comfortable. Logan observed him, wondering when he was likely to get around to explaining why he'd called on his services. But he was distracted from his thoughts when the band stopped playing and the stage lights went down, plunging the room into near darkness. Instantly the incessant muttering petered out and a smattering of applause flitted around the room. Then the room settled into almost silence as a shadowed figure stepped onto the stage.  
  
Logan narrowed his eyes to try and make out some detail but could see none. The best he could make out was the seductively, curvaceous silhouette of a tall woman. She stepped close to the microphone at the front of the stage. At that point a spotlight from the gantry at the back of the club burst into life, shinning directly onto the immanent performer. He felt a fast burst of adrenaline rush through his chest; his heart beat sped up for just a second. The woman was stunning----simply stunning. And for one such as him to be taken aback like that, he knew this gal must be something else.  
  
She was tall and although slender she had the curves, in all the right place. Her knee-length, strappy dress was sheer as silk and it clung to her body like a second skin. It highlighted her long, long thighs beautifully. He'd defy any man to look at those legs and not think about how it would feel to be between them. The deep violet of the dress was beautiful in itself, but what really made it seem rich was the way it played off her dusky coloured, smooth skin. The skin that Logan was now realising was almost luminous, and looked like it had been cut from the same cloth as her dress.  
  
He continued to look on in wonder at the woman's hair now. Never, in his entire life, had he seen anything quite like it. Its platinum shimmer as it curled about her bare shoulders was truly a sight to behold. She stepped closer to the large, silver radio-style microphone, taking its head in one, slender hand and tipping the stand ever so slightly in towards her. Her full, painted blood-red lips were a hairs breath away from its tip. As she opened her mouth just barely taking in a small breath a slow smile came to her lips and she said, "Take it away." Her voice was perfect, it's low, rich tone fit her to a tee.  
  
That was the bands queue and they started up a softly hypnotic rhythm. Gently her supple hips began to sway to the beat, as her eyes remained hooded. They were not closed but her lusciously long eyelashes guarded them as she looked down at the microphone in an almost coyly, submissive manner.  
  
"I am through with love, I'll never fall again,  
  
Said adieu to love, don't ever call again"  
  
It was then that her lids flipped up to reveal her jewel in the crown---- eyes of pure sapphire. The hair had thrown him but this----it capped off the extraordinary impression she'd already made on him. Then he began to frown, this really wasn't like him at all---what the hell was this woman doing to him?!  
  
"For I must have you or no one,  
  
And so I'm through with love."  
  
As she continued to sing, Forge glanced over at his companion, a wry smile coming to his lips. He took another sip of his champagne and returned his gaze to the stage act, eyeing her appreciatively. But there was something else going on behind those eyes--- they had the look of cold steel about them.  
  
Logan watched the entire performance enthralled, he didn't take his eyes from her once. He feared he couldn't have even if he'd tried. As she sang the last line, its dulcet tone drifting out into the space of the club, instantly enthusiastic applause rang out around the room. Its sharp sound startled Logan back to the land of the living.  
  
"Thank-you." She said demurely, taking a small bow, that stunning slow smile coming back to her beautiful lips.  
  
Still clapping and with his eyes still trained on the stage Forge leaned into Logan and asked, "So what do you think of the floor show?"  
  
Logan cleared his throat and grasped his drink, taking a bigger gulp than social etiquette would allow. It was taking him a moment to get back into professional mode. "She's good." He said flatly and took another drink. "But I fail to see what this little show has to do with you giving me a job"  
  
Forge laughed lowly, shaking his head----Logan wasn't fooling him in the slightest. The accompanying smile dropped from his face quickly as he said almost right into his ear, "She is your job."  
  
Logan placed his empty glass back on the table, shooting Forge a dark look. The band began to play again and he had to fight to keep his attention from drifting. "How do you mean?" He asked rather too gruffly, trying to disguise his annoyance with himself by being defensive. He knew Forge could tell he'd been distracted.  
  
Forge gave him that smile again but this time it was a bit more knowing---- smug even. "Oh come, come Mr. Logan, it's the oldest reason in the book." He gave another short laugh. "Surely someone as experienced as you can guess why I've called you here tonight?"  
  
"Blue moon, you saw me standing alone,  
  
Without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own."  
  
"I'm not in the habit of playing guessing games MR Forge." His emphasis on their sudden return to formality had a highly sarcastic ring.  
  
Forge ignored it, he'd been warned Logan could get difficult if he wanted to. "Fine, let's not beat about the bush any longer then. I want you to follow my wife." He picked up the glass containing his scotch, taking a short sip. His eyes had turned truly dark now as he continued in a low conspiratorial tone. The music was just loud enough to block out any prying ears. "I want to know everything and I mean everything. Where she goes, who she sees, what she does----most of all who she does it with."  
  
Logan had to fight to stop himself from smirking at the man----jealous husbands were never a pretty sight. He'd seen it a thousand times before and they were all the same. No matter how much dignity or pride they had when they first met with him as the details of their problems came to light they all became seething wrecks.  
  
#Grown men brought to their knees---all over a piece of skirt!# He thought wryly. But then his gaze went back to this particular piece and he had to admit; what a piece it was! He could almost understand----almost. "O. K. You got yourself a deal. You know my fee and that's not including expenses."  
  
"Naturally" He said as he watched his wife finish her second song, the applause rippling through the room once more.  
  
Logan stood up from the table, extending his hand down to his employer. "I'll be in touch." He stated simply as Forge took his hand briefly but not long enough for Logan to get another firm grip on it.  
  
With that he sauntered off through the tables but before he left he couldn't resist one quick glance back at his sultry subject. The door man gave Logan his hat and trench coat. He pulled it on, hitching up the collar and placed his hat over his wild hair.  
  
Suddenly he had the terrible feeling that this one was going to cause him trouble.  
  
-TBC-  
  
. 


	2. Chapter2

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.  
  
Chapter.2.  
  
Logan got into his office, slamming the door shut behind him. The cord of the open blinds rattled against the smoked glass window that was set into the door. An arched insignia of J. Logan: Private Investigator was printed on it in bold, black lettering. He didn't turn the light on as he removed his hat, placing it on the stand just inside the door. Then he shrugged out of his sopping wet camel brown trench coat. He shook most of the rain off, then reached into one of its inside pockets, pulling out a bunch of rolled up papers, before hanging it on the hook next to his hat. Going over to his desk he plonked himself down in his black leather, spring-backed chair, throwing the papers down and stretching out with a yawn. He sat for a moment, in the dark before reaching up and turning on the small lamp on his desk.  
  
Then without warning his thoughts turned back to HER---the sweet sway of her hips, her voice as rich as honey. That smile, that devastatingly slow, heart-stopping smile, it was enough to make any man sink to his knees.  
  
"Jailbait." He grumbled low to himself, he had to remember that there was a job to do here. He couldn't allow himself to fantasize about a client's wife---it simply wasn't professional. He lent back in his chair once more, running both his hands through his hair before clasping them together at the back of his head. Then he looked down at the papers that he presumed Forge had got someone to slip into his coat. Logan lent forwards again, retrieving the papers but as he did so he yanked open the bottom draw of his desk to his right-hand side. Fishing around the loose papers inside he grabbed the bottle he always kept topped up in there. Putting the Forge's papers down in his lap for a moment, he gave the bottle lid a swift twist, making it spin right off and drop to the floor. He didn't care as he took a large swig of whiskey from the bottle before setting it down on the desktop.  
  
"Right, let's see who this swarthy goddess is then." He unwound the elastic band that bound the papers together then unravelled them. The first few documents were photographs. It appeared that Mr. Forge had tried a bit of amateur sleuthing recently. There were four candid shots of the singer, surprisingly in colour; one of her outside of Smokey Jack's talking to a tall auburn haired gentleman. In fact on closer inspection, judging by their body language it seemed they were having a rather heated discussion. Logan flicked through the other ones quickly; there wasn't much revealing information in them. Shots of her shopping, meeting with female friends--- nothing special.  
  
Logan then turned his attention to the sheet that contained the written information. Carefully, he read her name off the top of the paper, aloud, "Ororo Munroe." He rubbed his free hand across his lips as he repeated the words quietly, "Ororo Munroe." A vague smile brushed his lips, his hand still resting on them as if trying to hide or halt the gesture.  
  
Speed reading the rest of the information nothing he saw surprised him. There was a list of her regular haunts and her closest friends and then her biographical details. She was the only surviving child of an immigrant couple that had moved to America from Kenya in 1920 and she'd grown up in Harlem. Her parents had died when she was still young---in suspicious circumstances it seemed--- and she'd been forced to make her own way in life. There weren't too many details about that period but Logan supposed that she'd picked up more than a few dodgy contacts along the way. According to this information she'd decided to become a singer at the age of nineteen. After dragging her act around almost every club in the City for three years she'd finally auditioned in a new club that opened in 1934-- -one 'Smokey Jack's'. It appeared Mr. Forge had been taken with the young beauty straight away, as they were married within a year of her starting work there.  
  
"Can't say I blame him." He muttered to himself as he threw the papers back onto the desk---all save for the first photograph. Picking up the bottle once more, he drank from it as he studied the photo again. There was something oddly familiar about the man in the picture. Logan new almost every hustler and dodgy character in this city, so there was a good chance that he'd come across him at some point. But he usually remembered every face-it unnerved him that he couldn't pin the man down.  
  
He closed his eyes; his lids had suddenly become very heavy. Letting the photo and the bottle rest on his chest, he relaxed back into the chair. Eventually his head began to loll to the side as he promptly fell asleep.  
  
* * *  
  
Across town at Smokey's...  
  
Ororo Munroe was in her husband's office, lounging on the green velvet sofa that sat against the wall opposite the desk. She lay stretched out, her eyes resting shut, but she wasn't asleep. Ororo detested this part of the night, every time he had some kind of business to conclude. He never let her go back to their apartment without him so after she'd finished performing of an evening she had to sit around and wait for him. Sometimes his 'negotiations' went on long into the early hours of the morning. She never had any idea what his 'business' was about but she was street wise enough to know the people he mixed with were a rather unsavoury lot. In fact, on occasion she'd recognise a face or two---but through mutual understanding, both party's would pretend not to.  
  
Tonight, as far as she could tell, Forge was having talks with the Lensherr Twin's, Pietro and Wanda. They usually came as their father's proxy if he didn't deem the associate important enough to deal with himself. Apparently, her husband was one such associate. Her mind began to drift and she thought briefly about the rough looking little man that she'd seen Forge with earlier in the evening. By his scruffy dress and particularly unkempt physical appearance, she was shocked he'd made it through the front door---never mind getting a private audience with the boss himself.  
  
So lost in her thoughts was she that she didn't notice as the office door began to open. The tall blond man, Victor, that had been talking with Forge before he met Logan crept quietly into the room. An odd, somehow vicious, grin came to his lips as he stalked slowly over towards Ororo. She was falling into a stupor and for a moment didn't notice a thing. That was until she sensed a shadow over her.  
  
She didn't open her eyes as she smiled and said, "So are you finally ready to leave darling." She let her head fall in 'his' direction. Her cheek laying flat against the soft velvet material as her soft hair fell down to caress her neck. Victor came in close, kneeling down at Ororo's side he brought one large hand up to her leg. Looking up at her serene, smiling face he hesitated for a moment before eventually laying his hand on her shapely calf. She made a soft groan of pleasure as Victor began to trail his hand up her leg. Then she let her knee fall to the side, parting her legs as his hand crept further and further until it was under her skirt and at the top of her inside thigh.  
  
"Umm----darling." Ororo pushed her head back against the arm of the sofa, her neck arching upwards as Victor began to caress and knead her leg alternately, occasionally brushing his fingers hard against the silk panties that covered her more sensitive area betwixt her thighs. Her reaction to his touch made the heat of sexual desire rise in him and he could no longer stop himself from emitting a low, passionate growl.  
  
"What?!" Ororo's eyes flipped open immediately as she sprang into a sitting position, drawing her legs up towards herself.  
  
Victor couldn't stop himself from laughing, his dark and frankly disturbing laugh sending a shiver down Ororo's spine. "Come on baby doll; don't pretend you didn't know it was me." He attempted to lay his hand on her leg again but she kicked his hand away.  
  
"You filthy pig! Don't you ever touch me again." Ororo practically jumped from the sofa and ran to the door. She was about to open it when Forge came in and she ran straight into him.  
  
Catching her in his arms he said, "Hey 'Ro, what's wrong?"  
  
Clinging to him she turned to face Victor who was sitting back on the sofa casually, as if nothing at all had happened. "He----nothing, it was nothing." She turned back to her husband, shaking her head minutely.  
  
"Don't give me that," He looked over at the other man who was now setting about lighting a cigarette. "What happened?" The question was directed toward both of them.  
  
Ororo pulled her head back from Forge's chest and repeated, " Honestly darling, it was nothing. I was falling asleep and he came into the room and startled me that's all." She smiled warmly to try and reassure him. "I was groggy---I over reacted."  
  
Still looking over at his hired muscle he knew he wasn't going to get a straight answer out of either of them, so he had to concede defeat and didn't press the matter any further. "Come on, let's get you home." Forge wrapped his arm around Ororo's shoulder as he ushered her from the room. They were just outside the door when he stopped, "Baby, can you go wait for me in the car. I'll be there soon, I promise." He planted a soft kiss on her forehead.  
  
"Really Kenny, nothing---" He cut her off by pressing two fingers gently to her lips.  
  
"Shush, it isn't about that---it's business."  
  
"Oh, if you're sure?" She felt relieved but at the same time something in her told her not to believe him.  
  
"I am, go on." He physically turned her toward the exit, giving her a playful little push in that direction by swatting her shapely rear. Waiting until she had left the building to make sure she'd done as she was told he went back into the office.  
  
*  
  
He shut the door behind him as he entered, his eyes trained on the large blond man who now stood by his desk.  
  
"So, did you speak with them? What did they say?" Victor asked his boss in is unnaturally deep, gruff voice.  
  
Forge stared at the larger man, his gaze darker than ever. He said nothing as he stepped closer to Victor---attempting to physic him out. Despite the fact that he was at least half his weight and almost a foot shorter than the other man he knew he could intimidate him. It was law of the jungle, except in this jungle it wasn't the fittest, the physically strongest who survived---it was the people with the most dangerous connections. In those terms Victor Creed knew he was small fry compared to his boss. Satisfied with his display of power, Forge answered Creed's question, "It looks promising. But I still think we should keep our cards close to our chests--- play it safe."  
  
"So you trust those two brats?" He asked, bringing his cigarette to his mouth.  
  
Forge cocked an eyebrow at him as he gave Victor a sly grin. "Those two? I wouldn't trust those back-stabbing bastards if my life depended on it."  
  
* * *  
  
The Lensherr Penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue...  
  
Erik Magnus Lensherr stood on the roof of his prime real-estate home, one of several he now owned around the New York state area, over looking the magnificent view of the city. A cool breeze blew into his face as he savoured the open space. It had finally stopped raining about an hour ago and Magnus, as he preferred to be called, wasted no time in making the most of the rest-bight in the weather. This was his favourite view and he'd done an awful lot in his life to obtain it.  
  
"Father?" He heard his daughter's voice calling for him from the apartment. They'd finally returned from a bit of business that he had no care to deal with personally. Magnus had distanced himself from the nitty-gritty of his work a long time ago. His twins took care of that side now---the heirs to his empire.  
  
Wanda came out onto the roof, making her way quickly over to her father. The clip-clop of her red stilettos against the concrete surface echoing out across the space. As she came to him she placed her hand on his back and looked out onto his view. "How are you Father?"  
  
"Well dear, very well." He reached down and took her other hand in his but didn't turn to look at her. "Did you conclude the business tonight?"  
  
Wanda sighed, shaking her head with remembered annoyance, "He was stubborn Father. He knows more than he's letting on I think and he wants to use it to his advantage." She gave a short, bitter laugh before adding, " That, plus the fact that he clearly found it distasteful to do business with a woman."  
  
Magnus said nothing but he did pat her hand a couple of times as a gesture of comfort. Wanda took her other hand from her Father's back and laid it on top of his as she leant her head on his broad shoulder. Her styled shoulder length brown hair moved restlessly about her face in the breeze, some strands getting into her mouth, sticking to her immaculately painted scarlet lips. As she brought her hand up to remove the hair she asked, "Would you like to talk to Pietro on the matter?"  
  
Magnus chuckled, "My dear girl, whatever for?"  
  
Wanda closed her eyes as she winced internally. She didn't know how much longer she could put up with her Father's sniping at her beloved brother. She felt she was stuck between the two---a surrogate wife to one, surrogate mother to the other. It seemed he would never except Pietro as his male heir---she appeared to be his substitute for all and it was a weight she was finding increasingly difficult to carry.  
  
Magnus took his hand from his daughter and beckoned her to go inside. "Please Wanda, come inside, it's chilly and you'll catch your death. The last thing we want is for that boy to be running the empire when I'm gone."  
  
Wanda ignored the jibe at her brother as she tutted at her Father, "Don't speak of such things, please."  
  
"Now Wanda dear, we know the time will come one day---it pays to be prepared." He linked his arm with hers and started back towards the apartment. "So tell me, did Forge have any additional information or was he just bluffing?"  
  
-TBC- 


	3. Chapter3

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.  
  
Chapter.3.  
  
"What this city needs is more investment!"  
  
The crowd gathered in Times Square roared and cheered, waving their little paper flags as Mayor Warren Worthington the Third shouted from his soap box. "We need to cleanse ourselves of the plague of organized crime that has been a blight on this fair city for too many years now!" Worthington shook his fist in the air as he spoke, eliciting even more wild cries of solidarity and more reverent flag waving from the crowd.  
  
As he ploughed headlong into a rousing and patriotic speech there seemed to be only one man amongst the crowd that was unmoved by it. P. I. Logan was stood more or less in the centre of the throng his hands in his pockets and a cigar clenched between his teeth. His eyes trailed along the temporary bandstand, draped in red, white and blue crape paper. Behind the gesticulating Mayor of New York there were a row of dignitaries and his supporters. A scowl came to Logan's face as he saw that the Chief of Police, Scott Summers was one of them, sitting with his wife, the Rita Hayward look-a-like Jean. Of course, he knew them both---but that was a past life.  
  
Logan's eyes continued to drift as he noted with some amusement the Mayor's wife Elizabeth Braddock-Worthington, sat just behind her husband. Her brown-stocking covered legs were crossed, the top one bobbing up and down idly as she held a slim black cigarette holder in her white gloved hand nonchalantly. She appeared so disinterested and bored that judging by the look on her face she'd rather top herself than listen to any more of her husband's mindless drivel. Even underneath the small hat net that guarded her eyes it was plain for all to see. But she wasn't the primary target of Logan's attention, the woman sat three chairs down was.  
  
Logan was relieved to notice that his blood pressure didn't jump quite so high this time when he laid eyes on her. At least it wasn't as bad as the last time, or the time before that, or the time before that one---. "Gettin' better." He muttered around his cigar. He plucked it from his mouth as he let his eyes rake over Ororo's body. She was dressed in a similar style to the Mayor's wife; the stockings, stilettos, respectably fashioned burgundy dress. She even had the box hat with the netting and the mink coat---but somehow she outclassed every other broad on the bandstand. Hell---the entire crowd if it came to it! He did his best to ignore the grinning gargoyle that was Kenny Forge, sitting at her side.  
  
Logan had been tailing his unsuspecting subject for just over a week now. So far nothing in her actions had been suspicious; she'd met with no dodgy types, hadn't really strayed any further than her apartment, Smokey's or shopping in Bloomingdale's. This was turning into a fairly routine investigation; he was used to dealing with overreacting husbands. They marry a hot broad---then they get jealous and suspicious every time a man looks at them sideways. But ain't that always the way?  
  
His mind was drifting when in the corner of his eye he caught sight of someone who looked familiar. When he turned to study them closer they'd disappeared into the crowd. Pushing his way through the masses, shoulder first, he made his way in the direction that they had gone. And sure enough he had walked but a few feet when he saw the tall auburn haired man from the photograph. He looked just as shady and out of place in this crowd as Logan suspected he did. He had on a dark brown trench coat that was buttoned right to the top, his hands in his pockets and the collar was pulled up about his ears. He had a black hat on that was covering most of his hair, but most of his long fringe had escaped and was hanging over one half of his face.  
  
The tall man was staring straight ahead, his eyes burning with concentration. Logan was non to surprised to find that when he followed the line of the man's gaze that it led right to Ororo. #Now this is getting interesting# he thought darkly as he took a drag on his almost finished cigar.  
  
* * *  
  
After the speeches had finished the entire roster of the guests of honour at the rally had gone to a swanky buffet, thrown, of course, by Worthington Industries. The crème-del-a-crème of New York society had turned up, they missed the 'political' part of the afternoon but they'd certainly come out in droves for the free food and flowing champagne.  
  
Ororo sipped slowly at her third glass of the evening. Standing at the back of the room she was content to people watch as Forge networked with the high and mighty. She didn't particularly care for evenings such as these but she had grown to except them as a wifely duty almost.  
  
The swell of people mixed around, jumping from one meaningless conversation to another. All fake smiles and expensive hair dos---this really was hell on earth. She may have enjoyed being a popular singer but these people, her main audience---truth be told she couldn't stand them. Gazing around she saw her husband talking with the Mayor and Chief Summers. It looked like they were keeping the conversation light at the moment but she was sure they'd go on talking late into the night on more serious business matters later.  
  
Just next to them stood Jean Summers and 'Betsy' Braddock-Worthington. The red head looked O. K, a little bored perhaps, but Betsy was a little worse for wear already. Ororo had heard rather a few rumours on the grapevine about Mrs. Worthington; apparently it was always quite difficult to carry on an adult conversation with her. The amount of prescribed tranquilizers the woman quaffed she was practically catatonic most of the time. "Who'd be a politician's wife?" She said quietly into her shallow, wide rimmed champagne class.  
  
She was about to take a sip when a deep, velvety voice said right into her ear, "Who indeed cheri?"  
  
Startled, Ororo span round, causing some of her drink to splash out of her glass and over the front of her dress. Laughing lightly the man pulled the folded red handkerchief from his front breast pocket and moved to wipe the spilled liquid from her front. But before he got the chance to she snatched the material from his hand and did it herself.  
  
Wiping at the stain with quick, angry strokes she hissed at him through gritted teeth, "What the hell are you doing here Remington?"  
  
The man shook his head at Ororo, his hair falling over his handsome face as tutted at her playfully, "Now dat be no way to greet an old friend chere."  
  
He put his hand to her chin, tip her head up, lifting her attention away from her dress but she knocked it away. Giving the room a quick glance to make sure nobody saw what just happened she turned back to her unexpected companion. "Remy, I thought we'd sorted this months ago." She whispered her voice quivering with barely checked anger  
  
He leant his right shoulder on the wall next to him, casually crossing his feet over at the ankle as he folded his arms over his chest. Staring directly into her eyes he gave her a lopsided smile, but said nothing. Ororo broke the gaze, sighing and shaking her head slightly, "Fine, but let's talk outside."  
  
Checking once again to see if anyone was watching them she took hold of his arm and guided him out into the corridor at the back of the dinning hall.  
  
*  
  
But Ororo wasn't as careful as she'd thought she'd been, not noticing Logan at the far end of the room. He'd watched the whole thing through the milling throng of rich weirdo's, celebrities and politicians. He waited for them to leave the room before he started after them, making sure also that he steered clear of Forge's view---he didn't really have anything concrete to provide him with yet.  
  
Quickly he made his way across the hall.  
  
* * *  
  
Ororo practically dragged Remy down the corridor, around a corner at the end and out of the fire exit. All the time she was checking right and left for any wondering bell boys or hotel and party guests. Finally when they were outside she turned round sharply on her heal and shouted, "What are you doing here? I thought you were going back down to New Orleans and staying there." True fury burned in her blue eyes now.  
  
"Hey chere, not so angry, hien?" He brought his hand up to caress her face and this time she didn't pull back from his touch. Although she didn't welcome it either---she was more resigned to it. "Remy wan'ed to come see 'is padnat, dat so wrong?" That damnable sexy smile of his was creeping back onto his chiselled features.  
  
Ororo looked away, fighting the urge to return it. He had away of distracting a girl and even though she knew his tricks---it didn't stop her from falling for them. "So, everything was O. K when you got back? They accepted the money?"  
  
Although he continued to smile it did slip a fraction but before she had time to think about that he'd pulled her into his arms. Resting his chin on her head, just to the side of her hat he breathed in the vanilla scent of her hair. "Mon dieu, yo' smell as good as evah!"  
  
Ororo returned the embrace, laughing softly against his shoulder at what he was trying to do. "Remy, it won't work." She pulled back to look him in the eyes, his eyes that through some medical defect had irises that were an odd reddish-brown colour. Something to do with blood vessels in the eye apparently, sometimes they appeared to be completely crimson. "Did they except it?"  
  
"Oh sure chere, no problems dere. De Mengo feres be off Remy's back now." He pulled his arms tighter around her.  
  
That worried her; he was definitely still hiding something from her. "Then-- -I don't mean to be callous---but why have you come back to New York." She laughed as she said, "You're not exactly welcome here---to say the least."  
  
"Humph! De girl knows how to make a boy feel at home, non?" He was trying his best to be humorous but he couldn't stop a frown from marring his features.  
  
"What is it then? What trouble have you managed to get yourself into this time Le Beau?"  
  
Remy took a deep breath as he released Ororo from his arms. He took a few aimless steps around the dirty back ally. He scratched his forehead as thought over what to tell her. "Dis ain't new trouble chere---it's old, very ol'. I jus' need a bit more."  
  
Ororo sighed loudly in exasperation as she turned her back on him. "I can't give you any more Remy, I just can't."  
  
"But chere, Remy's in big trouble---and I mean big. I jus' need---"He was beginning to sound desperate so Ororo cut him off.  
  
"Who is it this time then? Angry creditors? Lost big on the roulette wheel? Or did you just steel something from the wrong person---again?"  
  
Remy laughed, shaking his head as he thrust his hands absently into his pockets. Ororo noticed how he couldn't bring himself to look at her anymore, that's when she knew it really was serious. "Remy you must understand, I've given you all that I can. I want to help you, believe me. We went through so much together---but it's Forge."  
  
His face darkened as he asked, quite sharply, "What about him chere?"  
  
"He is growing suspicious I think. He wondered where all that money he gave me went to the last time." She walked back over to Remy, placing her hand comfortingly on his chest. "Is there any other way I can help?"  
  
"Yo' jus' don' get it anymore do yo' chere?" He spat the words out with a shocking bitterness. With a sardonic laugh he continued, "Now yo' all nice an' sittin' pretty in New York society yo' seem to 'ave forgotten what it be like out 'ere, non?" He walked away from her again, taking his hands out of his pockets he ran them both through his hair, gripping it at the top of his head as he looked up at the late evening sky.  
  
"That's not fair Remy and you know it!" She was genuinely wounded by his accusation.  
  
"Sometime' life, she ain't fair 'Roro. I need money an' I need it fast, yo' understand?" His strange eyes were literally becoming redder as he became angrier and more insistent in his request.  
  
"You don't seem to be listening. I-can't-give-it-to-you."  
  
He turned away from her again as he scratched at his unshaven chin. He appeared to be hesitating---he was building up to something she could tell. A strong feeling of trepidation started in her as his silence extended. Finally, he turned back to face her, "I'm sorry chere," he began quietly. "But if yo' don' get me ten thousan' dollars by two weeks I---." Remy stopped, looking down at the ground.  
  
"You'll what?"  
  
"Let's jus' say dat darlin' husban' o' yours might get to know a few more--- details abou' your life dan he'd like."  
  
* * *  
  
Logan quickly turned his face to the corridor wall, pretending to be looking at something on a nearby food trolley as Ororo Munroe rushed past him. He had caught a quick glance of her when she'd first came storming around the corner at the edge of the corridor. Her face was quite flushed, almost red and her eyes were glittering. But not with tears it seemed, but with pure anger.  
  
He followed her with his eyes once she'd passed him as she yanked open the door back into the hall. She let it fall shut behind her with a resounding slam. "Ooh, sexy when she's angry!" He joked to himself. He re-envisaged the sight of her effortless grace as she strode down the hallway, even her stomping march made her look sexy!  
  
He waited then for the auburn haired man to remerge then, the thought of him making him scowl slightly. So he was her lover after all, obviously his own fogged judgment had made him hope he wasn't. Forge had been right to suspect. He only wished he'd been able to hear their conversation in full--- a maid had come along at the most annoyingly inappropriate time to clean the carpet. He'd only caught the first couple of sentences---she clearly wasn't happy that he'd turned up here.  
  
At that moment the man came around the corner slowly, the look of worry on his face almost palpable. His hands were in his pockets as he dawdled up the hallway towards Logan, gazing at the floor. As he approached Logan he looked up at him, giving him a small nod of acknowledgement.  
  
"Cheer up, might never happen" Logan joked casually.  
  
The man gave Logan a short, rueful smile, "It already did mon ami." He carried on down the corridor but didn't go through the door that led to the party. Instead he continued on, disappearing round the opposite corner.  
  
That clinched it; Logan knew who the man was. When he had heard him speak with that distinctive Cajun drawl /Louisiana 'yat', it sparked his memory. But when he'd seen his eyes closer---those unmistakable eyes---then he knew it was him. Gambit. The notorious 'Blanc Diablo' of the French Quarter. This guy had a serious rep, all along the East coast. So serious in fact that some wondered whether or not the guy was a myth.  
  
Logan left the party then, he had some contacts to shake down.  
  
-TBC-  
  
What do you think of the first three chapters? Intrigued? Review and let me know what you think. 


	4. Chapter4

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.  
  
Chapter.4.  
  
It had taken Logan a few trips up and down the island and he hadn't slept since yesterday but finally he'd gotten some information. It wasn't much but it was certainly as start. Given that many people didn't even believe this guy existed, finding out anything at all was a minor miracle.  
  
Logan sat in his office chair, with his ever present bottle of scotch, elbows leaning on his desk. He was looking at the picture again and realised that something didn't quite sit right with all of this. An affair?- --No, the way they were interacting, the body language. Logan was an expert reader of people and their behaviour. This wasn't an affair. The information he'd managed to obtain told him that also. Apparently he was in trouble, BIG trouble. He couldn't ascertain the exact nature but he did find out it was mob-related. But as to which mob family---the most telling comment he'd received was from a regular contact of his. The street vender from Brooklyn had laughed aloud when Logan had mentioned the name...  
  
*  
  
"Look Ritchie, if you've got anything to give me on the Blanc Diablo spill it, now!" Logan was at the end of his tether.  
  
The vender laughed shortly, running his fingerless gloved hand down his beard. He gave Logan a toothless grin before saying, "From what I've heard-- -the infamous Remy the Gambit is a 'dead man walkin'."  
  
"How so?" Logan asked almost suspiciously.  
  
Ritchie shrugged his shoulders, "I don' know. Maybe the man just pulled one too many dangerous capers. All I know is that whoever he's crossed--- they're out for blood."  
  
Logan thought this over for a minute then he grabbed a paper off the news stand and began to walk away.  
  
"Hey!" Ritchie called after him. A few yards away Logan turned, digging his hand into his trouser pocket under his trench coat. Retrieving a quarter he flipped it over to the man and continued on his way.  
  
*  
  
Logan picked up that paper now, dropping the photograph carelessly to the desk. The main headline was; MAYOR WORTHINGTON VOWS TO FIGHT ORGANISED CRIME. All that followed was an inane account of the rally and after party that had taken place yesterday. He glanced through it quickly but his eyes came to an abrupt stop when he read; local business man and Worthington associate Mr. Kenny Forge was also at the rally with his beautiful wife, society jazz and blues singer Ororo Munroe....  
  
He read over her name a couple more times before sighing heavily and throwing the paper back down. "You're becomin' obsessed bub." He took a drink of scotch, looking down at the paper when something caught his eye. Putting the bottle down he picked the paper up once more and read the small article that was tucked away in the left hand corner of the front page.  
  
LENSHERR FAMILY DENY ALL CONNECTIONS TO THE MANCINI FAMILY KILLINGS. Local tycoon and alleged head of the Lensherr 'Mob' family, Mr. Erik Magnus Lensherr denied allegations yesterday that he was behind the fatal shootings that left three of the Mancini family dead. The two elder brothers Roberto and Fredo and a cousin of theirs, one Mr. Paulie De Ascentis where shot on the street when leaving a restaurant nearly two weeks ago. The Lensherr family are known to have connections with the Mancini's but so far no action has been taken. But police insist they are investigating the Lensherr's dealings with the well-known mob family.  
  
Of course Logan already knew most of this and was pretty damn sure that it was the Lensherr's behind the assassinations. But what interested him was the end note of the article; Late last year the notorious Lensherr family hit the headlines when it was alleged that Mr. Lensherr had had dealings with Warren Worthington the Second, father of the anti-mob Mayor during the 1920's and some years prior. But nothing was ever proved and the allegations were quashed.  
  
"I'll bet!" Logan snorted as he took another drink. "Damn hustlers the lot of them." He knew the time had probably come to inform his client of what he'd found so far. She may not have been sleeping with this Remy guy, but whatever was going on between them he had a gut feeling it was going to turn out a lot worse.  
  
* * *  
  
Remy Le Beau sat, or more over slouched in his seat at the back of 'Floozy's', a dark and seedy joint a couple of blocks away from 'Smokey's'. It was only twelve in the after noon but already a thirty five centre litre bottle of Bourbon lay empty on a grubby table in front of him. The glass in his hand was almost tipping over as his head lolled down, his chin touching his chest. He didn't stir when the bar door opened and the sound of high heals and accompanying heavy foot steps made their way over to him. Nor did he flinch a muscle as two of the vacant chairs around his table were pulled back, scraping loudly on the floor boards.  
  
"Mr. Le Beau." A richly toned female voice said, causing him to jerk his head up drunkenly. A lopsided grin spread across his face as he began to focus on the pretty woman, dressed head to toe in a stylish scarlet outfit, that was now sat directly opposite. She had a sultry, well sultry to his crossed eyes anyway, look on her face. A net guarded her heavily hooded dark eyes as she watched him, awaiting a response.  
  
"Dat depends who be askin' chere." He pushed himself up straight as he tried to put on his sexiest smile. "Fo' a beau'iful femme such as yo'self then yah, I be him." It was then he happened to glance to his side and the smile dropped off his face as he observed the huge man sitting there. He was unbelievably big, fat some would say, but Remy would bet that most of the man's roughly four hundred pounds of mass was in fact muscle. He looked from the man back to the woman and then back again. "An who migh' yo' two be den?" He asked keeping a suddenly weary eye on the man.  
  
"Wanda Lensherr and this is my associate, Fredric Dukes, also known 'affectionately' as 'The Blob'."  
  
Remy could feel himself starting to sweat but he managed to keep a cool veneer. "What dis abou' den chere, I be a very busy man. I ain't got de time for sittin' about an' makin' idle chit chat." He brought his glass to his mouth and to his dismay he felt his hand shaking. He knew exactly what this was about.  
  
Wanda couldn't stop a small smirk as she watched him, then she said, "So busy in fact, that you can be sat in a bar at mid day already drunk."  
  
Remy simply snorted and continued with his drink.  
  
"What happened to you Le Beau? I always heard such good things about you--- you were legend, the best apparently. Now look at you?"  
  
Remy put his glass down and gave Wanda a sly grin. Looking her up and down almost lecherously he replied, "Well Remy may 'ave fallen on---'ard times but dere still be some t'ings he mos' definitely got de knack for." Ignoring the fact that the hired muscle was right next to him he leaned in towards Wanda and said quietly. "I know de owner of dis joint, mebbe Remy can show yo' exactly what he still be good at---somewhere more comfortable." His eyes flipped to the ceiling in indication of the hotel rooms above the bar. He was smiling at her as he leant in that bit closer when suddenly he heard a distinctive click. The smile faltered, then it was gone completely when he felt what he was certain was the barrel end of a gun pressing into his groin.  
  
"My father is running out of patience with you Le Beau. If you'd like to keep the only implement that's still of any use to you I suggest you stop playing me."  
  
"Hey chere, Remy jus' be kiddin'! Dere's no need to get heavy." He sat back with his hands raised slightly in 'surrender'. Dukes laughed quietly, the first noise he'd made since they'd disturbed Remy's solo drinking marathon.  
  
Wanda pressed the gun harder against Remy's cock as she said quietly and with all seriousness, "As I'm sure you're aware by now the Guild has passed your debt on to us as way of payment of a debt they owed the Lensherr family. My father is giving you two weeks to get what you owe." She pressed the gun to him harder still, making him wince slightly. "Is that clear Le Beau? Because for your sake it better be like crystal."  
  
Remy nodded his head, he'd suddenly sobered up quite a lot. "I understand. I'm workin' on it." He slowly lowered his hands. Satisfied Wanda pulled back taking the gun away and slipping the hammer back down. She placed it carefully back in her purse before regarding Remy a little closer and giving him a playfully, sultry smile. #He's really quite handsome# she thought suddenly. #It's just a shame he's turned into a tanked up looser. What a waste of an exceptional talent#.  
  
"Here's a tip Remy, maybe if you lay of this," She picked up the bourbon glass holding it up in front of her, seemingly examining the liquid. Then her gaze dropped back down to Remy. "You'd be that master thief that I grew up hearing all those stories about."  
  
Remy said nothing to her as he regarded her darkly from beneath his brow.  
  
"Remember, two weeks." As Wanda stood so did Dukes, standing behind her like a bodyguard, his large hands folded at his front. Remy thought she was going to walk away but she bent down, leaning in close to his mouth with hers. "You're not a stupid man---so don't even think about crossing us." She let her full, scarlet lips brush against his lightly before moving away and with a confident stride; her hips swaying gently as she and her partner departed the bar.  
  
Remy shook as he released the breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. Letting his head fall against the wall at his back he sighed heavily, whispering the words, "Mon Dieu" as he did so. "'Roro baby, yo'd better come t'rough fo' Remy." He let his head come forwards again and with now almost uncontrollably shaking hands fumbled in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes.  
  
* * *  
  
"Are you ready darling?" Ororo said as she came into Forges office pulling on her thin, white gloves. She walked round the desk to him, placing her hands on his shoulders she leant in and planted a soft kiss on his cheek.  
  
Forge didn't take his eyes from the papers that he was studying intently. "Almost baby, just one or two more things to sort out." He said giving one of her hands an affectionate pat.  
  
Ororo peered down at the papers, "What are these about then?" She asked innocently.  
  
Forge immediately pulled the papers away, stuffing them quickly into a labeless file. "Just accounts dear, nothing special but it has to be done--- unfortunately."  
  
Ororo looked at him suspiciously; she may not have known much about accounts but whatever Forge had been studying they certainly were not them.  
  
"I know I should probably get a secretary to do this stuff." He said as he shuffled some more lose papers.  
  
Ororo laughed, her sweet, low laugh "I don't think so!"  
  
Forge looked up at his wife, confused, "And why on earth not?"  
  
She put her hands on her hips in a comical nagging wife pose, "If you think I'm going to let some half-brained floozy sit alone with my husband day and night," She leant in to kiss his lips softly, "You've got another think coming mister!"  
  
Forge laughed, but it sounded strangely empty as he eyed his wife. She had no idea the thoughts that were running through his head regarding issues of fidelity. He was startled from his chain of thought when the phone rang. Picking it up almost immediately he kept his eye on Ororo going over to the sofa as he said into the receiver, "Hello this is Smokey Jacks, Kenny Forge speaking."  
  
Whoever it was on the other end must have been important because as soon as they replied his they received his undivided attention. "Yes---uh hu---yes, yes I understand---um hum---I'll be over as soon as I can." He hung up the receiver.  
  
"Who was that?---and please don't tell me that it is business." She said seriously.  
  
"Baby doll!" Forge held his hands up as he shrugged his shoulders. "I'm sorry but it can't be helped. It's important."  
  
Ororo got up from the sofa and sauntered over to her husband. Perching on the desk right next to him she let her dress ride up, gradually exposing her stocking clad thigh. "Now you wouldn't let a girl go to lunch on her own would you?" She pouted at him.  
  
Forge chuckled, running his hand up her leg. Shaking his head he said, "Baby you know I don't want to." He brought his lips down to her long thigh kissing it softly. "But that was the Mayor---I've got to go."  
  
Ororo sighed, roughly pulling her dress back down as she slipped gracefully of the desk. She went back over to the sofa sitting down heavily; she snatched a magazine from the small coffee table to her left.  
  
"Oh don't be like that!" Forge pleaded half-heartedly as he watched Ororo flipping through the pages, tugging each one so hard it was a wonder they didn't tear. He got up from his chair and crouched on his haunches in front of her. Laying his hand on her knee he said, "I'll be as quick as I can baby, we'll go for dinner instead yes? Hey don't forget, we've got that club opening to attend next Saturday, remember?" He gazed up at her hopefully.  
  
Ororo tried to ignore him initially but eventually she caved in. "Fine! But I want to go to the most expensive restaurant in town." She was only half- serious in her request.  
  
Forge got up, kissing her forehead he said, "You've got it sweet cheeks." With that he grabbed his coat and hat from the stand by the door and left, giving his wife a quick wink just before he went.  
  
Ororo dropped the magazine to her side, and gazed absently at the fan in the ceiling whirling around in its hypnotic rhythm. Now what was she going to do? It was too late to call up any of her friends and she did so detest to eat alone. She sighed as she thought over her options. She didn't particularly want to go home just yet. Eventually she decided that she'd go fix herself a soda whilst she thought about it.  
  
*  
  
The club was completely empty, the bar staff weren't due for at least another hour to start perpetrations for this evening. She wasn't performing tonight, which was a rarity. She usually sang on most nights but she didn't mind the work load---she liked to keep busy. She could never understand women like Betsy, content to lounge around the house all day and do nothing. Jean Summers was kind of the same these days but neither of them used to be like that. She didn't know Betsy to well but apparently they were both active socially before they got married. It must have been the consequence of marring men in power---the social responsibility of being seen as the perfect wife. Ororo knew Forge had ambitions in that field and deep down---she hoped he failed. She knew it was kind of selfish but she didn't want to end up like many of the women she met in those circles--- Betsy in particular.  
  
After she'd poured her soda she made her way round to the other side of the bar, climbing onto one of the high stools. She reached up to her hair, pulling out the hat pins and taking it off. Next she tugged her gloves off placing them on the bar with her hat. Then her thoughts turned to Remy. She shook her head slightly---that man! At times she wondered how he'd lived this long. She was still angry and yes---hurt even, that he'd threatened her like he had. But---to a degree---she understood. The memories of her youth, the hustle or be hustled law still had a strong impression on her. She knew that if she were in his position no doubt she'd do the same. But what really kept her from hating his guts was the fact that she knew he must have been appallingly desperate to stoop so low. They'd been close once upon a time---very close in fact, maybe she'd even loved him---once upon a time. The thought of anything seriously bad happening to him chilled her to the bone.  
  
Ororo was about to take a sip of her drink when she heard foot steps behind her. She span around on her stool, scanning the club---it still looked empty. "Whose there?" She called, her voice echoing through the space. It was then she heard a low and quite frankly evil laugh. "Victor?"  
  
The slow tapping sound of steel capped shoes rang out, and then she saw him, cigar in hand at the far side of the room. He started towards her but she turned her back and carried on with her drink. She wasn't scared of him and she had no intention of letting him get the impression that she was. "What are you doing here? I thought you weren't in until tonight." She still had her back t him, playing casually with the stirrer in her soda.  
  
Victor made a noise that sounded almost like a growl, low in his throat. It sent a shiver through her but still she didn't show it. "Thought I'd come in early, check if anything needed," he came up right behind her, his mouth close to her hair as he said, "seeing to." He ran one large finger down her silver mane.  
  
Ororo didn't flinch at the touch, she wasn't about to play into his hands. He wanted her to be scared of him---that's what turned the sick fuck on. No instead she thought she'd play him at his own game. Turning around in her stool once more she looked up at the man. His short crop of blond hair was neatly combed back and his unnaturally dark eyes sparkled in the lamp light coming from behind the bar. She made a quick note of the fact that he'd actually bothered to shave today. "So, what exactly needs 'seeing to', I wonder." She set her drink down on the bar behind her.  
  
"Well, I think you know precisely what I mean." He moved closer encircling his large hands around her hips.  
  
Ororo smiled her slow smile, "Umm hum." She agreed as she reached down at rubbed at his crotch, moving her hand up and down slowly. It didn't take to long to get him standing to attention.  
  
He made that noise again but this time it had more of an edge to it. "Now you're gettin' the idea. Don't know why you've been so skittish for so long baby." He squeezed at her hips tighter as she sped up her hand movements. "Oh yeah---you've never exactly struck me as the type not to give it up."  
  
"Is that so?" She was still smiling at him when suddenly her gentle caresses turned into a vice like grip. Victor practically roared in shock, pain and anger. Ororo couldn't help but laugh, a sharp and unforgiving laugh. "How much of a fool do you think I am Creed? I wouldn't sleep with a creature like you for all the riches in the world." She gripped tighter, adding a little twist to her arsenal. He roared some more. "This is your one and only warning. You come near me again---they'll need dental records to identify you, do I make myself clear."  
  
"Bitch---ARGH!" She gripped even tighter.  
  
"Now, now," She said in mock chastisement. "There's no need for language like that." She released her grip just a bit. "Do we have a deal?" Looking at her with unbelievable fury in his eyes, he nodded quickly, taking in a sharp breath. "I can't here you!" She chimed as she twisted his genitals as far as she could.  
  
"YES, YES, YES!!! NOW GET THE FUCK OFF ME!"  
  
With that she let go, he stumbled backwards cupping his burning groin, his breathing coming in sharp pants. Ororo turned back round to the bar with a satisfied grin on her face and sipped at her drink.  
  
Victor began to walk, as much as he could walk hunched over like he was, away, "You'll fuckin' pay for that, bitch! I swear, you will pay!"  
  
Ororo chuckled lightly into her glass and then called out sarcastically, "Oh, I'm sure I will." She hear him muttering expletives as he stormed out of the main room of the club, slamming the doors to the dressing rooms open with a vicious kick.  
  
"That was quite some performance darlin'? Tell me do you treat all your husbands employee's like that?"  
  
-TBC- 


	5. Chapter5

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.  
  
Warning: There is a mild instance of drug consumption in this chapter.  
  
Thank-you to my reviewers, ya really know how to make a girl feel appreciated!  
  
Chapter.5.  
  
Ororo turned her head to look at the man who was stood, leaning on the door frame at the main entrance of Smokey's. "And who might you be?"  
  
The man walked into the club, but only half way towards her. Standing in the centre of the room, between all the unset tables, he said, "I'm an associate of your husbands."  
  
"He has rather a few of those. Would you mind being a bit more specific?"  
  
"The names Logan, Jimmy Logan but you can call me Logan. Everybody else does."  
  
"So it's not a specific honour to me then." She quipped as she finished her soda and slipped off her bar stool. "And in answer to your question---no, I don't treat all the employee's like that." Logan found himself staring like a pubescent teenager as she strode towards him, like a model down a catwalk, all swaying hips and endless legs. As she neared him she smiled and said, "That kind of treatment is only for the ones I REALLY like." She offered her hand to him. "Ororo Munroe, but I'm sure you know that already-- -being a 'friend' of my husbands."  
  
Logan hesitantly took her hand; he'd been watching her in awe for so long now that the thought of actually touching her---for one stupid second he wondered whether or not he could do it. Surely such heavenly creatures were not for the likes of him to touch. But eventually he took it and to his disbelief did something that he never, EVER did. He raised the slender object to his lips and kissed it like the most gallant of gentlemen.  
  
"Why thank-you sir." It was clearly a bit of a shock to her also. Especially seen as he seemed anything but a gentleman---his rough appearance and the faint odour of scotch around him told her that much.  
  
"Is your husband about?" He asked suddenly looking slightly ill at ease, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trousers nervously.  
  
Ororo smiled briefly, she knew full well that she could often be intimidating to men but some how she didn't peg Mr. Logan as the type to be intimidated---by anyone. But it made her feel confidant enough to put aside his question for a moment and say, "I've seen you before."  
  
"Well I was in the club a couple of weeks ago---talkin' to yer husband. We were watchin' ya from the front table."  
  
Ororo nodded, "Yes, that's true but no---I've definitely seen you somewhere else."  
  
#Shit! # He suddenly thought to himself, #must be loosing my touch#. He'd never been spotted by his subject before. "I get around the clubs quite often," he lied. "Maybe ya saw me in one."  
  
"No, I've got it. The rally yesterday, you were in the corridor at the after party." Ororo's gaze drifted to his unruly hair. "It was definitely you, how could I mistake such a---unique hairstyle." She grinned.  
  
"Uh, yeah, anyway---is Mr. Forge here?" He stumbled over his words  
  
"No, I'm sorry. I'm afraid work has claimed him. A meeting with Mayor Worthington. Shall I give him a message?"  
  
"No that's fine, I'll catch him another time, it's really not important." He said dismissively.  
  
"Well if you're sure?"  
  
"Yeah, it was nice to meet you Ms. Munroe." He reached up and shook her hand---just one last touch before he left.  
  
Logan was about to walk away when Ororo suddenly asked, "Are you free?"  
  
"Excuse me?" He asked, totally perplexed.  
  
"I mean for lunch, are you free? It's just that I'm at a loose end and I'm sure any friend of my husbands will be appropriate for me to dine with. I hate to eat alone."  
  
Logan didn't quite know how to reply for a moment. He knew he hadn't exactly been strictly professional with this case from the start but taking his subject out for dinner? Surely that would be crossing the line. "Well I'm not a friend as such, more a-a---."  
  
"A---a---a what?, 'Associate'?" She asked, mocking his nervous stuttering and gazing at him with those stunning blue eyes, making it extremely difficult for him to concentrate on a convincing lie. "Please?" She pouted playfully.  
  
With that his resolve and any piqué of conscience about the matter dissolved. Shrugging his shoulders he replied, "Why not, can't let a dame eat out all on her own in this part of town." He offered her his arm, she accepted it, raising her eyebrow slightly at being referred to as a 'dame' but she didn't protest---she'd been called worse.  
  
Logan graciously helped her into her mink coat and they left for Ororo's favourite haunt; 'Elaine's'.  
  
* * *  
  
"Forge never comes here with me." She said looking around the quaint little cafe.  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"Um, he says it's to 'down-market'," she laughed, a sound that was glorious to his ears. "He can be such a snob at times---and all because he knows one or two politicians!"  
  
Logan gave a wry smile, "Yeah, you'll find that can give a man strange ideas about his place in life." At that point the waiter, who had taken their order at the counter on entering, came back with their order.  
  
They ate in relative silence for a while, just exchanging small talk about her career how Logan had come to meet Forge, etc, etc... Of course, he'd lied about the exact circumstances that he'd come to be acquainted with Forge but she seemed to believe him.  
  
"So, Logan what is it you do?" She said then took a mouth full of pasta.  
  
"Oh ya know, a bit of this, a bit of that." He replied in a none-committal manner.  
  
Ororo swallowed her food, nodding her head and smiling, "Ah, that well known profession. It's odd; my husband seems to know a lot of people in that circle."  
  
Logan chuckled lightly, this broad had spunk, he liked that in a gal. "Yeah, well---it's the best kind of profession to have in this city."  
  
She took a sip of her white wine before asking, "What did you do before you did 'this and that'?" Logan's face darkened a fraction and Ororo picked up on it straight away. She instantly regretted asking the question. "I'm sorry, I---I shouldn't have asked." She turned her face down to her meal and carried on eating. They both ate in silence for a little while longer when Logan suddenly said,  
  
"I was with the NYPD." Ororo looked up at him curiously but he was still concentrating on his lunch. She couldn't see him working for the 'boys in blue' somehow. But then again obviously neither could he or he'd still be with them.  
  
"Oh. If you don't mind me asking why did you leave?"  
  
Logan swallowed the piece of stake he was chewing then cleared his throat. "Actually, seen as I don't really know you at all, yeah, I do mind you askin'" He tried not to sound gruff and defensive but it was a hard habit to break. After a moment he looked up at Ororo, hoping she hadn't taken offence. But to his relief he found she was trying to hold of a smirk. Obviously his grouchy display had amused her. He gave a confused laugh before asking, "What?"  
  
She shook her head, her hair brushing against her neck and shoulders beautifully. She held her hand to her mouth for a moment, to stop a full on laugh he assumed. "I meet so many men like you through my husband. All defensive with the 'I don't want to talk about my past' routine." She did laugh then.  
  
#I'm sure you wouldn't be too thrilled if I asked you about your past either#, is what he thought. But what he said was, "Well your husband doesn't exactly run with savoury types lady---you know that."  
  
"And are you one of those 'types'?" She cocked an eyebrow at him, a mischievous smile playing on her smooth lips.  
  
He gave her a lopsided grin and holding her gaze with a dark look he asked, "What'd you think?" She gazed into his eyes a little longer before shaking her head and turning her attention back down to her meal.  
  
The rest of lunch carried on in the same manner as before, inane banter about nothing in particular. But Logan had to catch himself from staring at her, fight the urge to reach out and touch her hair or the soft skin of her flawless face. The scent, that musky sandalwood scent that came from her skin was simply intoxicating and then there was the vanilla that came from her glorious hair. He'd truly never known another woman like her. Once they'd finished Logan had paid the bill and took her back to the club, hoping that Forge hadn't returned already. How would he have explained this?  
  
* * *  
  
Across town in the Worthington's apartment overlooking Central Park...  
  
Elizabeth Braddock-Worthington was sat at her dressing table, desperately trying to keep her eyes open. She ran the soft bristled brush through her wavy, brown hair slowly. Each stroke seeming to take the utmost concentration. It was three in the afternoon now and she was still in her silk night gown and robe. She held a cigarette and holder in her left hand-- -though she wasn't really smoking it. She couldn't manage one simple task such as brushing her hair without a struggle. So smoking at the same time would have been a trifle too hard. Eventually she gave up on the hair---it was too much effort and it wasn't like she was going anywhere today. She never went anywhere anymore---unless it was to act as the loyal, loving wife at a public engagement.  
  
Betsy stared at herself in the mirror from under drowsy lids; she'd been so pretty once upon a time. She supposed underneath it all she probably still was but things had taken their toll. Her once bright green eyes no longer shone, her high and defined cheek bones appeared sharper than they used too. Her actual cheeks were more sunken now, than defined. She ran a finger over the contours of her features; her eyelids, her nose, her rapidly thinning lips. As she regarded herself she suddenly thought---how could I have let this happen?  
  
Setting her cigarette down in the large blue glass ashtray on the dresser top she pulled open her top draw. Taking out a small, beautifully carved black, ivory box she twisted the catch at its front and with a flick of her thumb flipped the lid open. It was a snuff box. She had to keep it hidden these days because Warren refused to let her use it but she didn't care what he thought anymore. Dabbing her finger inside she placed it under her nose and breathed in sharply. She took another couple of fast in takes of air before rubbing at the underside of her nose with the same finger. Then she put the box back in the draw and picked up the half full champagne flute to her left. She finished its contents in one long swig, all the time staring at her empty face in the mirror.  
  
Betsy Braddock was slowly slipping away day by day, hour by hour and the worst thing of all was that she knew it. She could see it happening almost in slow motion---but she felt powerless to stop it.  
  
She picked up the bottle that was near her glass, "Empty." She sighed as she tipped it up and only a few dregs dropped into the waiting glass. "JESSICA!" She waited a second for her maid to reply, but patience was never her virtue. "JESSICA!" Still no response.  
  
"Damn it!" She slammed the bottle back down and stood from her dresser. Pulling her robe tighter she started for the door muttering angrily, "Do I have to do everything around here myself!"  
  
*  
  
Striding down the lofty hall way of her expensive and beautifully decorated home Betsy continued to call for her maid on the way to the drinks cabinet in the parlour. She was about to push open the large, white Georgian style doors when she heard voices. Voices in what sounded like heated discussion. Ever so gently Betsy managed to soundlessly nudge open the door, just a crack. She peered through it and could see her husband pacing back and forth in front of Kenny Forge. She couldn't see where Chief Summers was but she could hear him.  
  
"You know what we want Forge." She heard Scott say with his usually authority.  
  
"We? Since when has this been 'we' Summers?" Forge looked at the police chief and then at the Mayor. "I mean this is really Warren's problem after all."  
  
Warren stopped pacing, standing right in front of Forge. "Look, this game of yours has gone on long enough. If you don't---."  
  
"No Mr. Worthington if you don't oblige me---this whole thing gets blown wide open." Forge stood up, practically eyeball to eyeball with the Mayor. "You're in no position to threaten me."  
  
"You know you'll never hold any real position of power Forge." Scott started. "If I were you I'd take the money and be satisfied."  
  
Forge turned to Scott, a look of almost complete contempt in his eyes, "What if that offer wasn't good enough? What if I've found some one who wants them more than you do?"  
  
Scott came into Betsy's view then, leaning forwards in the chair to the left of Forge. "You're playing with the big boys now Forge. You got lucky--- it's time to back down before you get burnt."  
  
Forge said nothing for a moment before he started to laugh quietly. Looking from one man to the other it got louder and louder until coming to a rather abrupt stop. "I know exactly what I'm doing---don't make the mistake of underestimating me. We all know you two have the most to loose here. The Mayor and the Chief of Police and their campaign against organized crime--- you hypocritical bastards make me sick!"  
  
"Don't be so naive Forge," Warren started. "This is exactly what this is about---just because the methods aren't very pretty. There comes a time when you realise you have to do what you have to do---whether it sits well with your morals or not."  
  
"Well, it's been interesting gentlemen. Now if you'll excuse me I have plans for this afternoon." Forge started towards the door so Betsy pulled away and spirited off down the hall way.  
  
She'd never trusted Forge and now she had real reason not to. But she was learning a painful lesson in fact had been leaning it over the past ten years of her marriage that what he husband preached in public wasn't necessarily how he lived his life. So it was no real surprise to her that Warren had got himself involved with a man like that---he was just like his father. Betsy headed to the kitchen, she was sure there was a leftover bottle of champagne from their last party still in the fridge.  
  
*  
  
"What do you suggest I do about this situation Scott?" Warren loosened his neck tie as he sat in one of the parlours many reading chairs.  
  
Scott ran his hand through his hair and walked over to the floor to ceiling windows that looked out onto the park. Folding his hands behind his back, rocking lightly on the balls of his feet he took in a deep breath, releasing it audibly. "I think you know what needs to be done." His tone was completely neutral.  
  
"Scott, don't be so stupid, we can't---."  
  
"We can't what? He could drop you in it---not to mention me." Scott turned sharply to face Warren. For the first time in a long while the great, unshakable Scott Summers looked worried. "Let's face it Warren he's a crook, he's nothing more than a petty gangster. He's the type of rat bastard we've been trying to kick out of this city since you came to office."  
  
"And stooping to their level is really the answer? What ever happened to integrity Scott---the better future that you and I hoped for?" He pulled himself up roughly from the chair. "For Christ's sake Scott what would Charles say if he were still here today?"  
  
"Leave my father out of this!" Scott warned angrily, jabbing a finger in the other man's direction.  
  
"The man that adopted you," he continued regardless. "The man that held the position that you now hold he had a dream. He had ideals that he was prepared to give his life for to keep this city clean. What would Charles Xavier think if he could see you now?"  
  
Scott's face was an angry shade of red by now, Warren's words cutting a little too close to the bone. "He'd understand," he began quietly, turning back to the window. "Like you said to Forge, the methods might not be pretty but sometimes you have to do what you have to do." Scott brought his arm up against the window and then leant his forehead on it. Looking down at the crowds rushing by and the people milling around the park he then closed his eyes to it. Repeating to himself in barely a whisper, "He'd understand."  
  
Warren stared at his best friends back---if only he hadn't involved him in his problems. Scott had always been a man of principles, principles that had been strongly rooted in him by one of the most dignified men to ever walk the earth---so unlike his own father. Now he'd sullied those principles by dragging him into his world and he was sinking deeper by the minute.  
  
With a rueful sigh he got up from the chair and went over to the phone on the coffee table to make a call.  
  
-TBC-  
  
R 'n' R please! 


	6. Chapter6

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.  
  
Thank-you to my reviewers.  
  
Chapter.6.  
  
Next Saturday, the opening night of 'Frankie's Club'...  
  
*CRACKLE* "This is Jamie Jameson reporting for New York City Radio LIVE! from the grand opening of the city's newest venue 'Frankie's Club'. The club owner, former heavy weight contender Lucas Bishop, has just arrived with his beautiful new wife Tessa Bishop, looking stunning in a glittering blue dress and white fur. They're waving to the crowds assembled here, waiting for a glimpse of some of the New York jazz scenes biggest celebrities.*CRACKLE*  
  
*CRACKLE* And here we are, another black limo has just pulled up to the red carpet and it's the current darling of Broadway, Raven Darkholme, looking stunning in white silk. She waves to the crowds as they go wild at the arrival of one of the New York stages hottest new stars.*CRACKLE*  
  
*CRACKLE*Another limo has just pulled up and out steps club owner and close personal friend to Mayor Worthington, Kenny Forge accompanied by his gorgeous singer wife Ororo Munroe, who is rumoured to be making an impromptu performance some time this evening. They smile for the cameras as Ms Munroe emerges for the car and---*CRACKLE*  
  
*BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!*  
  
*CRACKLE* OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! There have just been several shots fired from a passing car, oh my god, it's pandemonium down here! The crowds are running in all directions---people are screaming---nobody knows what to do! Security have just bundled Ms. Munroe and Kenny Forge back into their car, I don't know if either were hit, I don't know if anybodies been hit! This is unbelievable people! This is simply UNBELIEVABLE! I just don't know what to say---oh god---oh god----*CRACKLE*  
  
* * *  
  
Police Station on the Upper East Side...  
  
Ororo had been sat in the interview room for at least an hour and a half maybe more and her hands were still shaking. A blue coloured standard issue blanket was slung loosely around her shoulders as she held a now cold but still full cup of coffee in her hands, staring blankly at the opposite wall, her head leaning back on the one behind her. She'd been checked for serious shock, but the attendant doctor had determined that there was no need for her to go to hospital. Miraculously, somehow, she'd escaped completely unscathed.  
  
Somewhere in the distance Ororo was vaguely aware of Forge's voice, shouting at goodness knows who. It seemed he'd been shouting at everyone who approached him since he'd arrived. She could hear murmurs, phones ringing, less frantic shouting and the occasional scream. But they didn't seem to register---it was like she was in a bubble and all these things were happening outside of it--- somewhere far away.  
  
It had all happened so fast---she could remember getting out of the car. The bright flashing of cameras almost blinding, the incessant hollering of the crowds and then the bangs. Those terrifying loud gun shots. She could remember being thrown to the ground by Forge or was it security? She didn't know all she did know was that within seconds she had been bundled back into the limo and they were speeding away.  
  
The door of the interview room opened quickly, the blinds clattering against the glass. "Come on 'Ro, we're going!" Forge stormed through the door, angry as hell. Ororo looked up at him, startled; he was the first person she'd seen since the doctor when she'd first come in.  
  
"Bu-but-but I haven't spoken to anyone. Don't they want to speak to me?" She stammered, her nerves shot to shit, gazing up at her husband with wide frightened eyes.  
  
"NO! Now get you're things, we're leaving!" Forge was furious. His hands were clenched at his sides and he couldn't seem to stand still for a second.  
  
"But---"  
  
Forge reached down and grasped Ororo's arm, yanking her up from the seat and spilling the coffee she held everywhere. "Ororo we are leaving!" He was dragging her towards the door when Chief of Police Scott Summers came through it.  
  
"What are you doing Mr. Forge?; we haven't spoken with your wife yet." He had a completely clam demeanour, like nothing at all had happened.  
  
Forge released his grip on Ororo's arm and strode over to Chief Summers. He grabbed at the lapels of Summers' uniform pulling his face close to his. He said nothing for a moment, simply eyeballing the slightly shorter man with cold anger. Eventually he uttered quietly, so quietly that almost Ororo couldn't hear, "You will both pay for this."  
  
Scott seemed completely unaffected by Forge's confrontational behaviour. Reaching up to pull the other man's hands from his uniform, he then took a small step backwards. Straightening out his collar he said, "I don't know what you're implying Forge but don't forget---the Lensherr family don't take too kindly to being messed with."  
  
Forge furrowed his brow---he'd been so sure about who was responsible for the attempt on his and his wife's life. But now the seeds of doubt had been sown---Erik Lensherr was a ruthless son-of-a-bitch and this caper was just his style. But never-the-less, he still didn't trust Summers and he certainly didn't trust Mayor Worthington. In fact, Forge didn't trust anyone right now.  
  
"Fine," he muttered. "But I'm still taking my wife home---now." He took Ororo's arm again but in a more gentle fashion this time. "You can talk to her tomorrow."  
  
"O. K, I'll send somebody to your apartment---or would the club be more convenient?" The Chief of Police asked, trying to stave off a self- satisfied grin from his lean, attractive features.  
  
"I'll let you know." Forge said quickly as he almost dragged a still slightly stunned Ororo from the room and out of the police station.  
  
*  
  
"Johnston!" Forge shouted to the chauffeur as he rushed down the steps at the front entrance of the police station, pulling Ororo behind him.  
  
"Yes Sir?" The man asked as he scrambled out of the car to open the back door for his employer.  
  
As they reached the car door, Forge stood back to let Ororo climb into the car but he didn't follow. Instead he turned to his driver and said, "Take her to Smokey's pronto, I think Victor's there---he can keep an eye on her."  
  
"No! I don't want to stay with that man---not tonight."  
  
"What?!" Forge seemed angry and annoyed at his wife's awkwardness as he looked down at her. He sighed, rubbing his hand across his forehead as he leant on the open car door with his other arm. He racked his brains to think of someone, anyone he could safely send Ororo to. "Fine, fine, but you can't stay alone tonight."  
  
"Why?---where do you think you're going?!" She didn't want to be left with Creed but nor did she relish the thought of being left on her own right now.  
  
Then a thought came to Forge, he could send her to the only person that had no real connection with him. "Johnston, take her here." He pulled a calling card from his wallet and handed it to the chauffeur.  
  
The driver read the card quickly then asked, "Urr, which address sir?"  
  
"The home one---get her there quickly and don't leave until you know she's safely inside." Johnston nodded and climbed back into the driver's seat of the limo. Forge crouched at the open door, looking in with what was almost a tender look, he reached for her hand. Clasping it gently his, he brought it to his mouth, brushing his lips over her soft skin. Ororo watched him from her heavy-lidded gaze, totally unmoved by his display of affection. On occasion she could become as cold as ice when displeased---or seriously upset.  
  
"So, where are you going to go?" She asked indifferently.  
  
Forge wasn't fooled by the ice queen routine, he'd seen it many a time before. "I need to take care of something." He closed his eyes as he kissed the back of her hand and then her fingers to the tips. "You don't need to worry---it wasn't you they were after."  
  
Before she could respond Forge let go of her hand and pulled away from the car. Slamming the door shut firmly he then banged on the roof a couple of times to indicate to Johnston to drive. Ororo turned around in the back seat of the limo, to look out at her husband as the car pulled away. It started to rain as she continued to watch him until the car rounded the corner. Turning back round to face the front she fought to hold back tears-- -she knew this was the beginning. She'd seen it a thousand times before, here in New York and back in New Orleans---this was always how it started.  
  
* * *  
  
*THUD, THUD, THUD!*  
  
"Wha---?" Logan's head shot up from his pillow that he'd been lying face down in as he heard frantic knocking on his apartment door. With his eyes still closed he floundered around trying, to grab the clock from his bed side table. Finally he found it, puling it near to his face he pried his sleep clogged eyes open. It was only ten in the evening, but the bottle of whiskey he'd consumed earlier had unsurprisingly knocked him clean out. "Who the fuck?" He grumbled groggily as he shook his head in an attempt to clear it. As he climbed from his untidy bed the knocking came again.  
  
*THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD!*  
  
"Alright, alright! Hold yer goddamn horses!" Logan bellowed as he made his way from his bedroom to the front door. He undid three of the six locks before stopping. Turning round he searched the room with his eyes for his jacket. It was fairly dark but for some reason he didn't think to switch the light on. Then he saw it, hanging off the back of his sofa. Quickly Logan trotted over and reached into his inside pocket, pulling out his gun.  
  
*THUD, THUD, THUD!*  
  
"Calm the fuck down! I'm comin'!" He swiftly opened the rest of the locks, expecting to find one of his 'questionable' contacts, cocking the hammer back on his gun he yanked open the door.  
  
It was her.  
  
"Wha---what are you doin'---." Logan stopped as he then noticed the uniformed man behind her and suddenly gained his senses. "What are you doin' here Ms. Munroe?" He was looking at the chauffeur as he asked the question gruffly.  
  
"Mr. Forge requested that I bring her here for her own safety sir."  
  
Logan looked at the tall, strawberry-blond haired man in the pristinely- cut, double-breasted navy jacket with large silver buttons quizzically, as he asked cautiously, "And who the hell might you be?"  
  
"I'm Mr. Forge's chauffeur sir, he simply told me to bring Ms. Munroe to you." The man clocked that Mr. Logan had obviously not heard any news reports this evening, the short man locked like he'd only just woken up, the crease lines of his pillow still indented into his stubbled cheek.  
  
"Go inside, make yerself comfortable." He addressed Ororo somewhat curtly before stepping out into the corridor with the driver and pulling the door to behind him.  
  
For the second time tonight she was left alone whilst the men around her talked in hushed tones behind closed doors. What did they think she was? Some delicate flower to be protected? If that's how they viewed her, they were sorely mistaken. But she wasn't in the right frame of mind to contest them. After those brief and somewhat bitter thoughts she started to take note of her surroundings. Looking around to her left then her right, the place was no more than she'd expected. Tiny, and despite being sparsely furnished it was a complete mess.  
  
"Obviously doesn't get too many visitors." She said to herself as she continued to scan the room, ostensibly searching for a clean place to sit. Clearing a couple of books and some loose papers from the arm of the closest chair to her, she swiped her hand across it before perching tentatively on its edge. The light was still off in the room, only adding to the rather grim impression it had already made on her. But it wasn't as if she hadn't seen or in fact lived in places like this before. Actually, now that she thought about it, the last place Remy and she had lived together in, wasn't exactly the Plaza. She turned as Logan re-entered the apartment, flicking the light switch on unexpectedly as he came in.  
  
"Ow! Thank-you very much!" Ororo complained as she hastily shielded her eyes from the light bulb's bright glow.  
  
"Sorry." He mumbled quietly as he went straight past her and into the kitchen. Turning the light on in there she watched him as he quickly twisted the cold water tap on. Cupping his hands beneath the flowing, clear liquid, he brought the pool up to his face and scrubbed it roughly, presumably to wake himself more thoroughly.  
  
"I'm sorry for the intrusion." She called to him apologetically.  
  
"Don't worry about it." Logan replied as he dried his face with a tea towel. He didn't exactly sound to convincing though---he didn't like it when 'work' showed up on his doorstep. He'd definitely have to have a serious talk with Forge tomorrow. Walking over to his sofa Logan hastily removed all the crap and clutter that covered its thread-bare cushions. "Sit." He more or less commanded as he proceeded to leave the room again.  
  
#Great host!# Ororo thought to herself wryly as she sat where he'd bade her to. But then again, she had just turned up unannounced on his door step. Despite the lunch, and quite pleasant lunch at that, they where still little more than strangers. Or so she thought---. She looked around again and now that the light was on, it did appear a little better. There were some rather nice Japanese prints on the slightly nicotine-yellowed walls, all in black lacquered wood frames. There were also a row of framed photographs on the mantel place.  
  
Taking a short glance toward the doorway that Logan had just gone through cautiously, she got up and went over to fire place. She looked over the pictures one by one. There didn't seem to be any of family, which she thought was odd but then she noticed one striking picture. It was of a Japanese lady, dressed in a Geisha outfit or ceremonial robes of some sort? She wasn't sure, traditional Japanese dress wasn't exactly her forte. Ororo picked the frame up to study it closer only to have it roughly snatched from her hands.  
  
"What the hell do ya think yer doin'?" Logan growled angrily.  
  
"I'm sorry---I just---." Ororo was slightly flustered and embarrassed by being caught out. He gave the glass in the frame a quick 'polish' with his shirt sleeve before placing it carefully back where it was.  
  
"I've sorted out the bedroom---you can stay in there tonight, I'll take the couch."  
  
"O.K." She agreed quietly, still feeling a little guilty for snooping. She was about to go into what she presumed was the bedroom as Logan began arranging blankets on the sofa. But she suddenly realised she wasn't quite ready to be alone just yet. Stopping at the doorway to Logan's room she leant against it, chewing her lip hesitantly she said, "Logan?"  
  
"What?" He continued to sort out the blankets, not bothering to look at her.  
  
Walking over to the sofa, Ororo leant her hands on its back, feeling nervous to ask. "Do you mind if I stay in here for a while?"  
  
Logan stopped what he was doing and looked up at her. "Why?"  
  
She laughed nervously, shrugging her shoulders, "I just don't want to be one my own right now."  
  
As Logan looked at her, his irritation soon started to disperse---for the first time tonight he thought about how beautiful she was. Painfully beautiful in fact and found himself unable to refuse her. "Sure darlin'."  
  
She smiled in relief almost as she made her way round the sofa and took it upon herself to snuggle under the blankets, tucking her feet beneath her.  
  
Logan cocked an eyebrow at her familiarity then went to sit on the chair opposite.  
  
"There's room for two you know." He turned around to see her patting the space beside her. He hesitated for a moment, making sure he wasn't picking up mixed signals---but then he told himself not to be so stupid. The woman had narrowly escaped with her life tonight, seducing a grizzled ex-cop was probably the last thing on her mind.  
  
Ororo watched him as he came back towards her, she could tell he was nervous and only hoped he hadn't taken her request the wrong way. She just wanted to be close to someone---that was all.  
  
Logan sat, or more over perched on the sofa at first, hands on his knees, back rigidly straight. Ororo tried to stop herself from smirking at him, a fact that was not lost on him. Realising he was just being stupid he eventually relaxed back into the seat. Neither of them spoke for a while but oddly enough for two near strangers, the silence wasn't uncomfortable. They'd had a rather nice rapport at lunch the other day and that seemed to make them feel at ease with each other even under these---unsolicited circumstances.  
  
"Well, seen as we've met twice now and I'm already at your place at the second 'date'," She began, a playful tone in her voice, "I think I've earned the right to find out what happened with you and the NYPD." She gave him a small mischievous smile and cocked a snow-white eyebrow at him.  
  
Logan just looked at her bemused and ever-so-slightly incredulous. Every time he thought he'd got this woman figured, something else popped out of the wood-work! She was a constant wonder to him, in more ways than one. Shaking his head and sighing in mock exasperation, then he chuckled, "Real subtle aren't ya darlin'?"  
  
"Moi?!" She said with pretend offence at the implication, bringing her hand to her chest. " Never!" They both laughed. Logan thought how good it felt, to be in the company of someone else, to be relaxed in that company also. That was a very rare feat for him. "But seriously, what happened?" She appeared genuine in her curiosity, like she really cared. That was another thing that had been lacking in Logan's life---for a fair few years now.  
  
He leant forwards, scratching his head, "Where do I start? I did a lot of crazy shit, pardon my French," He held his hand up to her by way of apology. "The drinkin' was a major problem I guess, Summers was always on my ass about it. He was jus' waitin' for me to slip up, make that one major mistake that he could nail me for." He stopped; it felt odd talking to someone about this. What was even more strange was the fact that he felt so damn comfortable talking to her, for some reason he suddenly felt like he could tell her anything.  
  
Ororo sensed his hesitancy; slowly she leant forwards and gently ran her hand along his back, from shoulder to shoulder in a silent prompt for him to continue. He turned his head to look up at her, her blue, blue eyes seemed more intense than ever for some reason. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. Tearing his gaze away to stare down at his own hands that were now folded over one another in front of him, he continued, "But I was rapidly losing control---I knew it---he knew it---the whole goddamn force knew it. And then---it happened."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I was tryin' to get a confession out of a suspect. He was guilty---we all knew he was guilty, but the bastard was gonna get away with it. He had the money, ya see---and a fancy lawyer."  
  
"What had he done?" She asked quietly, biting her lip with worry for some reason.  
  
"He'd attacked a hooker---instead of payin' her, he thought it would be a better idea to beat seven shades of shit out of her." Logan rubbed his palms together, like he was concentrating on not getting angry.  
  
Ororo thought it best to say something, "What happened to the girl---she didn't---?" She couldn't finish the question, mainly because she knew the answer already.  
  
"Hmph---she hung on for a few days, considering the state the kid was in--- even that was a damn miracle." He stood up and went over to the fire place, leaning against it with one hand. There was a silver flask at one end of the mantle, he picked it up and quickly undid the top, holding its opening just in front of his lips he said, "I beat him." He took several gulps from the flask.  
  
Ororo brought her legs down from the sofa and shimmied along it towards the end that Logan was stood. Looking up at him, with an expression that was at once worried and sorrowful she asked quietly, "Did you---kill him?"  
  
Logan's jaw tensed as he met Ororo's eyes and he shook his head. Keeping the eye contact with her he confirmed his gesture, "No---I didn't kill him. But there's not a single day that goes by that I don't wish that I had." On his confession he had to look away, he was scared at what he might see on her face at his admission.  
  
"Did he get away with it?" Ororo was strangely unmoved by what he had just admitted, in fact, she could totally understand---he'd probably be shocked to hear that, but she really did.  
  
Still looking down at the flask in his hand, idly running his index finger around its rim he replied, "Yeah." Then took another drink. "Well, if ya call bein' permanently paralysed down one half of yer body 'gettin' away with it'."  
  
"I suppose that was at least something." She muttered as she wrapped her arms around herself---it made her sick that money could circumvent the justice system. Money and connections---that's all that seemed to matter in this town. Then there were men like Logan, men who deep down are good---she could see that in him now. There was a strong sense of honour about him, that's the only way she could describe it. What he did wasn't right, but since when had the system ever played by the rules. That was one of the major first lessons that Remy had taught her---trust no one, especially not the system. It was a lesson she'd found hard to shake and it had taken her a while to learn how to trust anyone at all. For most of her life Remy was the only one that she could---and look how well that was turning out.  
  
"You want a drink---food or something?" Logan suddenly said, remembering his manners and changing the subject in one fell swoop.  
  
"No, I'm fine. Thank-you all the same."  
  
Logan moved back to the sofa, sitting the other side of her. The same silence as before settled over the pair. But this time it was Logan's turn to break it. "So what's your big secret?"  
  
Ororo looked at him with a questioning expression but she knew what he was alluding to, she'd worked out his other little secret a while ago. "You want to know my secret?" Her gaze deliberately shifted across the room and Logan felt compelled to follow it.  
  
"Shit!" He muttered, but with good humour, as both their eyes settled on a certificate in a small metal frame at the far side of the room. A certificate that read 'James Logan: Private Investigator.' In large letters across the top.  
  
Ororo chuckled into her hand, "Don't worry, I already had my suspicions--- that just confirmed them."  
  
"You had yer 'suspicions' huh?" Logan said sceptically as he raised his eyebrow. "Since when?"  
  
"Since the day at the hotel---when I noticed you in the corridor. But when you told me you were ex-NYPD that clinched it." She gave him the same playfully sceptical look he was eyeing her with before adding, "I may be all smart clubs and fur coats now but I'm still street wise you know---you never loose that sixth sense."  
  
"Then you know what it's all about?" He asked, suddenly serious.  
  
Ororo nodded, "My husband thinks I'm having an affair---with Remy Le Beau of all people!"  
  
"That's right darlin'---I've realised that ain't what's goin' on with you two." He turned his head that little bit more to hold her gaze directly and said quietly, "So what is?" He couldn't stop his eyes from dropping down to her mouth, tracing the line of her beautiful, ruby lips with their pouting edges. He had to concentrate hard to stop his eyes from dropping down further, taking them quickly back to her eyes.  
  
Ororo didn't reply for a moment, she knew what his eyes were doing---and it excited her. She'd been trying to ignore her growing attraction to this man. But the more she found out about him, the more it grew. Sure, he wasn't conventionally attractive but he was still attractive none-the-less. She'd noticed this at lunch the other day; the strong lines of his features had certain---nobility to them, a rugged manliness. So unlike the smoothly chiselled plains of her husbands face---or even Remy's. No, there was definitely something much more to this one---she couldn't put her finger on it, but it was definitely there. Taking her mind back to their conversation, she replied, "He's in trouble."  
  
"I know that, I've been diggin' around. Seems he's really pissed off the wrong people this time."  
  
"Then you know who?" Ororo asked, sounding hopeful.  
  
"Urr, no---not yet. But what does he want from you?"  
  
"We're old friends Logan. He wanted me to give him some money." She suddenly looked worried and her eyes held that far off look as if she were thinking over something. "I've given him some before, but this time---its money that I can't get."  
  
Logan twigged then, "So what? The bastard's blackmailing you?"  
  
Ororo nodded, still looking worried but also rueful at the same time. He didn't understand their history---he didn't understand anything about it, not really.  
  
"Some friend ya got there beautiful." He said sarcastically before taking in a deep breath, clasping his hands together behind his head and leaning back in the sofa. "So what's he got on ya?"  
  
After a hesitant pause she replied, "You don't need to know. But suffice to say, I'd rather Forge never found out about it."  
  
"That's fair enough darlin', but what are ya gonna do? If he's in that much trouble that he's gotta try and screw his friends over then it must be serious." Ororo shrugged then yawned, stretching her arms up above her head and arching her back. Logan again found himself staring, thinking about what a stunning figure she had---for the millionth time.  
  
"Can we just talk about something else? I think we've had enough drama for one night." She tucked a stray, delicate white curl behind her ear as she rubbed at one eye sleepily.  
  
"O. K." He agreed, smiling at her tenderly despite himself.  
  
They talked for hours, about all sorts but nothing of any depth or importance. Then at about 2.40am Ororo had fallen asleep---on Logan's chest. He'd tried to move but every time he shifted she stirred and he didn't want to wake her, not after the night she'd had. So he'd settled back into the most comfortable position that he could and found himself wrapping his arms around her. The skin of those long, graceful limbs was just as soft as he'd imagined it would be. She felt so good there in his arms, her head resting just under his chin. It was the first time in a long time that he'd just lay there, holding a woman in his arms. A beautiful woman that he could feel himself falling in love with.  
  
Falling? He'd already gone head-long off that particular cliff and was rapidly drowning in the waters below.  
  
* * *  
  
Forge walked silently yet determinedly, following the 'servant' to Erik Lensherr's office---or Magnus as he preferred to be known. Victor Creed followed not far behind, making for a menacing presence in his sharp pin- stripped suit and awesome height.  
  
The guard, for there was no way he was a simple servant, didn't even bother to knock on the broad double mahogany doors that led to Magnus's office, clearly Forge was more than expected. Storming past the guard quickly, Forge stomped straight to Lensherr's desk, banging his fists down on it and leaning forwards.  
  
"What the fuck do you think you're playing at Lensherr!" The usually cool Forge roared, but after the events of tonight no one could blame him for being riled. He had to direct the threat to the back of a high-backed leather chair though, as Magnus hadn't seen fit to turn to face him yet.  
  
"Hello Mr. Forge." The greeting had a rather smug tone, knowing almost, like he was laughing at him without having the audacity to actually do so.  
  
"You bastard!" Forge's face screwed up like a Pit-Bull chewing a wasp as he ground out the words.  
  
At that, Magnus turned his chair, a vaguely ponderous expression on his face. Weaving his hands together in front of him he arched a pure white eyebrow at Forge and then let his gaze fall upon Victor. He tossed his head in the direction of Forge's heavy and gave a brief sardonic laugh, "Did you really think that was necessary dear boy?" He tipped his head forwards slightly, giving Forge a lop-sided smirk.  
  
Kenny didn't take kindly to the gesture, pursing his lips he uttered threateningly, "If this is the way you wish to play it---then so be it."  
  
"I wish to play?" He laughed again. "No, no, no. Now what porky-pies has our dear Chief Summer's been feeding you?" He started to move his pivoted chair from side to side slightly, like a school child bored in class.  
  
"Well, he said---he suggested that---." Standing up straight Forge took a deep breath to steady himself. "This is just the type of thing you'd do Lensherr---you're a ruthless bastard when it comes to getting what you want." He said with hard fought constraint, mirroring Summer's earlier words to him.  
  
Magnus shook his head with that same knowing smirk on his face, "After everything you've been privy to you still believe that those prissy Long- Island, Harvard educated, sliver-spoon pricks are the ones playing by the rules." He shook his head more vehemently. "You poor deluded fool, don't you see?" He spread his arms wide in a dramatic gesture, "We're all swimming in the same pig swill---it's just that some of us are more adept at hiding it than others." A dejected looking Forge nodded his head in somewhat reluctant agreement, suddenly realising what a naive fool he'd been.  
  
"But who? Surely those privileged cunts wouldn't have the nerve to get someone directly connected to them to do the dirty." Forge's eyes seemed to search absently as he tried to rack his brains to think of anyone who could have done this as their proxy.  
  
"Mancini." Magnus said the word quite slow and very precisely. Then leaning forwards on his large, wax-finished oak desk he asked, "And what are you going to give me for such---," He paused as he swirled his tongue in his left cheek in gleeful anticipation of his request. "---valuable information?"  
  
Forge nodded, willing to concede his precious cargo that he'd kept hidden for so long. "Tomorrow." He stated, still bobbing his head and then repeated as he walked away from the desk and started to exit the office, Creed not far behind, "Tomorrow."  
  
Erik Magnus Lensherr pushed back the back-support of his chair, a gleeful glint in his eyes as he watched Kenny Forge and his mute lackey leave. "Tomorrow." He echoed Forge's promise quietly to himself. "Tomorrow Warren, you little bastard---you'll get yours." Turning his chair back to face the large bay windows behind him he felt for the first time in years true satisfaction---his time was near.  
  
-TBC-  
  
R 'n' R please! 


	7. Chapter7

Disclaimer: Same as before.  
  
Chapter.7.  
  
"Hey baby." Remy turned his head up in the direction of the sultry female voice that caressed his ears like velvet.  
  
"Hey Stacy." He replied, giving a nod in her direction but not taking his attention away from the joint that he was rolling between his long and dexterous fingers. Stacey walked over to him as he remained on his bed, sat upright against the grubby white, padded headboard, long legs stretched out in front of him.  
  
Stacy, who was dressed in a rather low cut black dress and although it did come down to her knees---it didn't exactly hide her trade, especially not in this neighbourhood, walked over to the bed and immediately snatched the joint from Remy's hands.  
  
"What de fuck?!" Remy snapped as he glared at her. But the dark haired woman, with the long shapely legs only laughed at him. She lay the spliff down onto the bed side cabinet as she climbed onto the bed, legs akimbo, either side of Remy's hips.  
  
"You know me Remy; I always want your full attention." She laughed in that deep and throaty way of hers. It was so damn sexy---but it reminded him of-- -someone else he was trying hard not to think. That was certainly something he could do without right now.  
  
"So, Stacy 'X'," He always called her that, partly because he didn't know her last name and partly because of her other---talents. "What yo' got fo' Remy today chere?" He ran his hands over her fishnet stocking clad thighs as he spoke, making his way up and underneath her little, black dress. Hitching it up around her narrow waist he was pleased to find she had forgone the empty ritual of wearing underwear.  
  
"Oh, anything you want baby!" She said into his mouth as she leaned in to kiss him, darting her tongue into the opening, he took it up immediately, ravishing it with his own as his hands gripped at her legs and then without warning moved them up to her arching back. She ground her hips into his, her naked sex rubbing up against his already hard 'appendage'. Breaking from his lips abruptly Stacy entwined her hands into his thick, longish auburn hair and said between short teasing pecks of his delicious lips, "Anything you want---provided you've got the readies to pay for it."  
  
Taking one hand from her body, Remy reached into the back pocket of his grey suit trousers and pulled out a crisp ten dollar note. He brought it up sharpish, in between their close faces. Stacy smiled with her full dark lips and proceeded to clasp the green note between her perfectly white teeth---sharp little teeth as Remy knew from pleasurable experience. "That's more like it." She crooned as she took the money from her mouth and slipped it down her lacy brazier. Then she moved in with expert fingers on his fly, undoing the zip and the top button in no time. He was content to sit back and watch her in her trade, moving his hands to her hips. Suddenly his standing flesh was free and she was down on it with her throbbing heat between her thighs. No ceremony, no meaningless declarations and exaggerated moans of pleasure---this girl was straight down to business.  
  
*  
  
After a few minutes of frantic grinding and bucking...  
  
"'RORO!---urrr---fuck!" Remy came inside the whore that was now laid beneath him; his entire body shaking with the release. "Mon Dieu!" He sighed against Stacy's chest and then he rolled off her, lost in his own momentary nirvana, a miss to anything else. She just lay there for a second, not really feeling the emptiness of his withdrawal at first and not panting at all---she rarely worked up a sweat these days. The only time she ever really did was with the man who was now lay sweaty and breathless beside her, but he'd gotten back into bad habits these days---he'd started to think of his 'padnat' again, starting to call her by that name again when his earth shattering climax came and although it was unprofessional to get unduly attached to clients---with this one---Stacey just couldn't seem to help herself.  
  
Sitting up and reaching over to the cabinet she retrieved the recently made joint, plus the lighter beside it and lay back at Remy's side to smoke it. Taking two long tokes, she exhaled leisurely, blowing out a cloud of yellowish smoke. "So when did you see her again?"  
  
"What?" Remy asked sharply, turning his head to look at Stacey. She laughed, that oddly painful and jerky laugh people do when they're laid on their back with a lung full of smoke. The laugh turned into a bit of a gruff cough as she struggled to compose herself. Beating on her chest in an attempt to clear herself of the affliction, after a moment or two she actually managed to stop.  
  
"When did you see your little 'Stormy'?" She raised her eyebrows in quick succession, in time with each syllable pronounced of Remy's pet name for Ororo. His little 'Stormy'---he used to call her that because of her at times tempestuous nature---she could be a real little fire plug when she wanted to be. He sat up, creating a peeling noise as his sweat soaked shirt wrenched up from the cheap sheets of his dirty little hotel room. Hitching his knees up, Remy wrapped his arms around them.  
  
"It ain't none o' yaw goddamn business woman, so keep this," he turned his head to look down at her as he tapped the side of his nose. "Out of it."  
  
Stacy just rolled her eyes and sighed in a humorously over emphasised way as she turned over onto her front and continued to smoke the spliff. "Whatever you say Le Beau---whatever you say."  
  
* * *  
  
Ororo hadn't been in this part of town for a while but she still knew it like the back of her hand. She stopped in front of the rather dilapidated looking hotel that she knew Remy would be staying at---he always stayed here when he wanted to keep a low profile. Which, to be fair, was now every time he came to New York.  
  
She went into the lobby and slipped the receptionist-who also happened to be the proprietor a few notes to glean the number of Remy's room and swiftly made her way up there. The hotel was a complete shit hole, damp ran down the walls, old brown stained wall paper hung down because of it, waiting to be pulled off and as she reached Remy's room Ororo looked up to see that the light just out side his room was stuttering on and off, water dripping from its fittings. She tutted and shook her head briefly in disgust but quickly hid the expression as before she managed to knock on the door it was suddenly yanked open.  
  
Opening her mouth to speak, the words caught in her throat as stood before her was a very tall woman with cropped jet black hair, slicked to the side, in a style more akin to the 1920's. Ororo fixed her eyes suspiciously on the woman's piercing green ones as for a moment the two women were locked in some kind of stand-off. That was until a familiar voice came from the room, "Stacy, what's de hold up chere?" Remy was a little impatient for the prostitute to leave, but he couldn't see who was blocking her way.  
  
Not taking her gaze from Ororo, Stacy called back, in a rather knowing, spiteful manner, "Just giving you a 'Storm' warning, baby." She smirked at Ororo as she heard Remy quickly clamouring around to make himself and his bed presentable. Laughing lightly Stacy pulled on her old and somewhat tired second-hand fur coat and moved past Ororo, neither woman exchanging a word. But they didn't have to really, Ororo watched her as she sauntered off down the hall way with a cocky strut.  
  
After the woman had disappeared round the corner, Ororo finally went into the room, walking straight over to the open bathroom doorway where Remy was hastily washing himself. Leaning against the door frame with her back turned, she said, "So, have you had any luck in sorting out your little problem yet?" She looked down at her gloved hands, rubbing her thumb over her first two fingers to ascertain the amount of grime she had collected on them since her arrival.  
  
"Yo' know I 'aven't chere. I tol' yo', Remy can't get de 'ole amoun'," He came back through the door, his wet hair slicked back, bare-chested and with nothing more than his slacks on, their braces hanging down about his sides. Bringing the tips of his fingers to Ororo's chin, tipping her head slightly, he continued, "unless yo' help me." He gave her a light peck on the cheek.  
  
Ororo said nothing as she moved away from him, arms folded across her chest. Then turning to face him from the safe distance of the middle of the room. "So, you can't afford to pay your debts but you can afford the luxury of a whore." Her tone was completely neutral, as if the fact that Remy had gotten so low that he was using prostitutes didn't bother her. It did, but not in the way Remy was thinking or perhaps hoping.  
  
"Well chere," Remy had that loveable-rogue glint in his eye and a hint of humour in his voice as he cocked one auburn eyebrow, saying, "A man's gotta 'eat'!"  
  
Ororo couldn't help but laugh but whether it was with humour or pity, neither could tell. "Remy, I know you're in serious trouble, but you have to tell me who you are in trouble with." She shrugged her shoulders, "Maybe then I can help you."  
  
Remy scowled, biting at the inside of his cheek to stop a scornful comment coming from his mouth. Taking in a deep breath to calm himself he said quietly, "Chere....'Roro, de only, an' I mean, de ONLY way yo' can help Remy now, is to get de money I asked fo'."  
  
"Don't you understand?" She said, raising her voice a notch. "I can't help you that way---maybe---maybe..." Trailing off, Ororo turned away from him and tried to think, desperately for some solution, she couldn't help him in the way he wanted but there was no way she would abandon him to his fate. "What if I were to speak with Forge," she turned back to face him, he was beginning to shake his head at her but she pressed on with insistence, "Please Remy, just listen. He has contacts, he could---."  
  
"He could do fuck all, is what he can do, chere!" Ororo jumped as he shouted the words at her, it wasn't often the man raised his voice.  
  
"Why?" Ororo continued regardless, "Why won't you let him help you? If it's as bad as---."  
  
"Look 'Ro, just leave it---I don' wan' de homme's help, yo' got dat? I don' wan' him to know anyt'in' about dis---or me." Remy walked over to his dresser, several items of clothing spilled out from its half open draws. He tugged at a white shirt, the closest thing to hand and pulled it on quickly, but left it unbuttoned for the mean time.  
  
"What have you got against him?" Ororo asked curiously as she moved over to the now stripped bed and perched on its edge, crossing her long, fish-net stocking clad legs, her skirt rising a little higher up her thigh. "You've never even met him."  
  
Remy was distracted for a second, by the sight of her hem riding up but quickly regained his chain of thought. "You hear t'ings chere, but dat's not important is it." He said quite spitefully.  
  
"Oh will you just shut your mouth!" She spat back at him, she was sick of his constant jibes at her husband, that as far as Ororo was concerned were completely unwarranted. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"  
  
Remy looked down at his chest as he set about the task of buttoning up his shirt, some of his dark, auburn hair falling down in a wet clump the cover half of his face. As he did this he muttered under his breath, ignoring her question, "Why don' yo' ask dat little 'birdie'?"  
  
"What?" She asked sharply, straightening her back a little as her attention became more intent, eager to know what he was hinting at.  
  
"Nothin' chere," he waved his hand dismissively at her as his eyes still concentrated on doing up his shirt. "Jus' ignore me." Finishing that task he grabbed for a tie and began to knot it loosely about his neck.  
  
"No! I want to know what you were implying." Ororo demanded angrily as she sprang up from the bed and stormed across the small hotel room to stand right in front of him. Remy didn't look up at her immediately, fiddling without purpose at the chunky, incorrect knot of his dark grey tie. Irritated by this, Ororo grabbed at his hands, tearing them away from his neck, at which point he did look up at her, his expression none to pleased, but she didn't care. "What were you getting at Le Beau?" She only ever referred to him by surname when she was seriously pissed, either his surname or she'd use his full name, Remington.  
  
"I said," He deliberately over-pronounced each word. "Why don' yo' ask dat little 'birdie'?" Giving her an all at once sly yet somehow regretful look, Remy walked away from her and sat on the rickety stool that was seemingly without place or purpose positioned by the small, grubby window, that afforded the north facing hotel room little light.  
  
"And that means?" Ororo spoke softly now, she had an inkling at the far regions of her mind, a dull recognition, about what he was alluding to, but she'd never let herself think about it in any depth---or at all, in fact.  
  
Remy remained silent for a moment, clasping his hands together casually in front of him as he rested his forearms on his knees. Swallowing down in what seemed to be preparation, he said quite clearly, without accent but in no particular tone, "Raven Darkholme."  
  
Ororo suddenly had a sinking sensation in her stomach, like a stone being dropped in a deep pool and speeding down to its dark depths seconds after. She put her hand to her midriff for a moment as if to stop the feeling put it only persisted and was then joined by a dry mouth and an inexplicable cloudy sensation in her head. Her face became flushed, almost red, and she could feel a prickly heat rising up her neck, ready to consume her face. Moving over to the bed side table, Ororo picked up an old copy of the New York Times and began to fan herself with it. "It's---it's hot in here---is it just me or is it hot in here?" She asked, stuttering distractedly.  
  
Remy recognised classic avoidance tactics when he saw them and he warred with himself for a moment as to whether or not he should play along and change the subject or challenge her on the matter, her reaction clearly showing that on some level she must have known. He got up from the stool and went over to sit next to her where she had now positioned herself back on the bed, still fanning herself albeit with less verve, staring blankly at the door directly opposite. Remy motioned as if he was going to put his arm around her but pulled it back at the last minute folding his hands together in a ball in front of him instead.  
  
"Look, Stormy, I'm---."  
  
"Don't call me that!" She snapped, her head still facing forwards. "I never want you to call me that name ever again."  
  
"O. K, O. K," He said in a manner that bade her to calm down. "I jus'--- look, I'm sorry O. K. 'Ro? I didn' mean to---to---."  
  
"To what?" She cut across, but not angrily, she seemed to have slipped back into her state of dazed confusion---or shock. "To hurt me?"  
  
Turning her head to look at Remy at her left side, Ororo just about caught the look of guilt the flittered across his face, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head a little as he turned his face to the floor. But bringing it back up quickly, a few stray drops of water from his hair flicking back onto the bed behind, he turned to face her and said, "No, Stor---'Roro, I'd nevah hurt yo' on purpose, yo' know dat. Yo' de only family I got in de world chere. I---." He tried to cup her face with his hand as he continued but Ororo abruptly stood from the bed, knocking his hand away as she did so. "'Ro, please believe me, Remy don' wanna hurt yo', girl."  
  
Ororo couldn't look at him anymore, he appeared to be sincere in his declaration and somehow that only made this all worse. Instead she let her eyes fall down to the paper she still held tightly in her hand, its black print staining her white gloves as the sweat from the tips of her fingers soaked through the silk material. On the front page was a picture of the rally. There was Warren, Betsy just behind, Scott, Jean and then next to her sat Forge---looking particularly smug. Dropping the paper to the floor, Ororo bolted for the door, she fumbled with the catch with slippery fingers as it blurred in her vision, thick tears filling her blue eyes. As she pulled more fervently at it her purse slipped from under her arm, opening on impact and scattering keys, lipstick, and other hand-bag paraphernalia over the mucky, olive green carpet. Remy watched for a moment not sure what he could do, not sure if he had the right to try and stop her from leaving. But when, with a few half-frustrated, half-tearful groans she finally managed to yank the door open, he almost jumped from the bed, hand out stretched, slamming it back closed.  
  
"Remy! ---Remy!" she cried at him as she tried to reopen the door but met with resistance from him, fighting to take her hand from the copper- coloured catch. "Stop it! ---Let me leave!"  
  
Eventually, Remy won the 'fight', managing to grab both her arms at the wrist, and then attempted to calm her, "'Ro, please chere, calm down, hien? Jus' cool it girl, come on...come on," With a few last half-hearted beats at his chest, she stopped struggling, before collapsing into Remy's arms with silently jerking shoulders. "Come on, shush...shush. I'm sorry ma padnat...Remy's sorry." He continued to sooth her as he lightly ran his hand down her silky hair that hung lose from beneath her hat.  
  
Pulling her head back once she'd forced her sobbing to stop, Ororo wiped the wet from under her slightly reddened eyes, Remy giving her a hand. The intimately affectionate action made her smile at him, albeit a rather sad smile. "I'm sorry." She offered needlessly.  
  
"Hey, dere's no need fo' yo' to be apologising to me. Yo' ain't de one dat's in de wrong 'ere." Remy guided her back over to the bed, his arm about her shoulder. "Dis got nothin' to do wit yo' chere," he shook his head ruefully as he said, more to himself than to her, "Yo' a good girl Stormy...yo' a good soul, de bas'tards in yaw life ain't got no right to even breath de same air as yo'...me included."  
  
"Remy," Ororo began quietly, looking over at him, but he still seemed to be lost in contemplation of his last words. "I know someone who might be able to help you."  
  
That startled him back to the real world, his own problem had actually slipped from his mind for a moment there, a rare occurrence these days. "How yo' mean chere?" he questioned wearily, because he was fast giving up any hope of saving his neck, there seemed no point in getting optimistic for no reason. "Who?"  
  
Standing from the bed, Ororo went to her purse, whose contents still littered the floor, gathering them all back up she said, "Just come with me now, and I'll show you."  
  
* * *  
  
*Tap, tap, tap* Logan looked over at the smoked glass panel in his office door, his eyes squinted to stop the thin, blue wisp of smoke that came from the cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth from getting into his eyes, to see the silhouette of two people against the glass. He dropped the file he was holding back into the top draw of his tall filing cabinet, slamming it shut. Taking the cigar from his mouth, wedging it firmly at the bottom of his first two fingers he went over to his desk and sat back down in his chair before calling out, "Come in."  
  
Amid a barrage of rattling and creaking the door opened quickly, but Logan had his face down, pretending to be studying some photographs. It was only when that particular scent drifted to him from the far end of the room that he stopped the pretence and froze. Listening intently to the two sets of footsteps as they came closer and closer---for a moment he dared not look up.  
  
"Logan?" He closed his eyes for a second on hearing her voice---that beautiful voice calling his name...his name.  
  
Pulling his head back up as casually as he could, Logan was about to smile when he saw Gambit; Le Blanco Diablo, close behind her. His face dropped into his customary scowl as he put his cigar back into his mouth and lent back in his chair. "An' what can I do for you today, darlin'."  
  
Ororo did well to stifle a chuckle at his attempt to be aloof and professional. "Someone I want you to meet," she motioned her hand in Remy's direction and he stepped forwards, extending his hand down to the other man. "Remington Le Beau."  
  
"I know." Logan said cautiously as he took Remy's hand and gripped it with his usual firm greeting, but was somewhat surprised and oddly pleased to find it returned in kind. "So what can I do for you?" He asked out of formality, still looking up at the tall, auburn haired man with eyes that looked even redder than they had during their brief encounter in the corridor of the hotel.  
  
"As if you don't know." Ororo raised her slim eyebrow at him as she sat in the chair, crossing her legs as she rested her hands on the edge of each wooden arm. She was wearing a hat with a net over her eyes again today, making it difficult for Logan to see her eyes properly; he did so love to see those glittering sapphires that she kept behind her sultry, hooded gaze. But today he felt she was hiding them for a reason, like she was pretending to be in control, affecting an air of cool indifference to everything that had happened lately.  
  
Logan gave an indifferent sniff as he went for his stash of scotch in the bottom draw, despite the fact that it was only one o' clock in the afternoon. He searched around for a clean glass; he couldn't very well drink straight out of the bottle when he had company. Pouring it into the relatively unmarked tumbler he'd unearthed, he asked, "Want anythin'?"  
  
Ororo declined the curtly spoken offer with a small shake of her head and a polite smile, but Remy, spying another almost spotless glass under a pile of unopened bills, held it out, as bold as brass. Logan quirked a thick eyebrow at him before pouring him one and then placing the bottle back into his draw.  
  
"So---what do you want me to do," he tipped his glass in Remy's direction, "about his little dilemma?" He took a sip of scotch, not holding it his mouth long enough to savour the taste.  
  
"You've got contacts Logan," Ororo replied most seriously, "I'm sure you can find a way to help him."  
  
Logan swirled a large amount of liquid around his mouth, thinking about what exactly he had found over the past two days since the attempt on Forge, and by extent Ororo's, life. For a second he wondered whether or not he should divulge what he'd discovered but it was all still a bit cryptic. But then, Ororo pre-empted him.  
  
"Forge has something." She took in Logan's quizzical look and then continued. "I don't know what it is but I'm certain it could help Remy---my husband has had dealings with many---unsavoury types. Whatever it is he's hiding, I'm certain that it could be useful."  
  
"So you'd cross your husband," he eyed Remy over the rim of his glass, "To help him. The man who is---to all intents and purposes---blackmailing you." Remy flashed Logan a dark but simultaneously guilty look. Ororo didn't reply, she stared at Logan with an icy indifference, unwilling to answer his rather personal inquiry. She just wanted him to help her---no questions asked. And somehow, she knew that he would.  
  
"O. K, "he said after thinking about it for a moment, "I'll help 'Silent Sam' here," Remy grinned at the good natured jibe as he took a drink. He hadn't actually spoken to this man, Logan, since he'd come into the office. "But it'll involve gettin' into Forge's office."  
  
"That's not a problem." Ororo reached into her slim, black leather purse and retrieved a chunky set of keys, jangling them in front of Logan before throwing them onto his desk.  
  
Logan snatched them up, examining them intently, quickly working out which one was for the main entrance. Rummaging in his jacket pocket, he took out a smaller bunch of keys and tossed them to Ororo, she caught them deftly. "Go back to my apartment, the two of you can wait for me there."  
  
Logan was surprised to find they both started their protestations at exactly the same time, an instant chorus of "I don't think so" and "You're not leaving me behind."  
  
"O. K," Logan laughed, as they both quietened down, "Remy-Gambit- Le Blanco Fucking Diablo, or whatever the fuck your name is, you can come with me. But you," He turned his chair as he addressed Ororo, "You can stay at the apartment---no arguments."  
  
She was about to protest but Remy cut in, agreeing with Logan, "Chere, let us deal wit dis, the further away from dis yo' are...de happier I'll be." He laid his hand on her shoulder and she looked up at him. His strange eyes seemed to plead with her, so out of loyalty to him, the love of a friend--- the love of a sister on her part at least, she reluctantly agreed to stay behind whilst they ventured to the club, to discover Forge's 'secret'. "Fine, I'll stay behind. But I want you to come straight to me once you've got what you need."  
  
"Don' worry chere...we will."  
  
Logan looked at the pair, noticed the closeness of their relationship and for a moment he felt a pang of jealousy, real raw jealousy. But he kept it hidden, for the simple fact that he knew that whatever the Cajun was feeling, he felt sure Ororo's feelings for him were not the same. Breaking up their little connection he gruffly blurted, "Right then, come on. We'll take you to mine and then we'll work out when we can make our move."  
  
-TBC- 


	8. Chapter8

Disclaimer: Same as before.  
  
Chapter.8.  
  
It was past two o' clock, and the last member of staff had just left 'Smokey Jack's'. Jimmy Logan and Remy Le Beau where waiting around the corner, in the concealing darkness of the ally way opposite. They stood in the driving rain, hats on, collars of their trench coats firmly pulled up to almost meet their rims. Forge had left about half an hour ago with a several men, most of which Logan recognised and the ones he didn't Remy most certainly did. Their was Tony Mortimer, a little sneak from the Bronx, Tom Cassidy, or Black Tom as he was more widely known when he ran the Irish mob down in Hell's Kitchen but he'd been ousted some years ago by his own cousin, Sean Cassidy. Remy had recognised Jason Wyngarde, a master forger he'd actually worked with on a couple of occasions, when times had been good on the Bayou, steeling priceless artworks only for Jason 'Mastermind' Wyngarde to replace them with faultless copies. Cain Marko was there too, Logan had certainly recognised him; stepbrother of Charles Xavier, the most respected Chief of Police this city had ever had---that was until he'd been gunned down in 1931. Marko and his gang had been suspected of the assassination, but nothing had ever been proved. Logan had served under Xavier for a few years back in the twenties when he was still a little 'green'---'wet behind the ears', as they say. Charles had been the only authority figure Logan had ever respected---a father figure almost. How he'd love to get his revenge on that bastard Cain; but now was not the time for settling personal vendettas. Speaking of which, the last to leave with Kenny Forge was Victor Creed.  
  
Victor Creed---they both knew him, from very bitter history. When Logan had seen him the first time he'd gone into Forge's office all those weeks ago, cruel memory had stirred, but it was past and Logan neither had the heart or the inclination to open that old can of worms again---nor had Creed himself it seemed for he was equally content to blank his former foe.  
  
"Bas'tard." Remy had muttered as he watched the huge blonde man getting into the car with Forge. Logan had looked over at him and recognised that look, something in his scowl had told him Creed held a rather unpleasant place in his past too---but he had said nothing as he followed the cars, with his dull eyes, down the empty, rain caressed street.  
  
*  
  
"Shall we make our move den homme?" Remy inquired with an unnecessary whisper as he idly shuffled a pack of much worn cards in his hands and looked across the street at the now deserted, night blackened club.  
  
Logan looked down at the pack in Remy's hands with vague curiosity as he started to shuffle them in ever more elaborate and clearly experienced ways. Taking his attention away and back to the club opposite, he hitched his collar up higher and started to walk across to the low roofed building, without a word in reply to Remy's question. 'Gambit' shrugged his shoulders casually before slipping his beloved cards, for they had been with him for a very long time, back into the right hand pocket of his ankle length coat and belatedly following the shorter man to the other side of the road.  
  
Logan looked up and down the street a couple of times as he reached the door, to check that their were no wondering drunks or tramps about to disturb them as he fished about in his pocket and eventually pulled out the set of keys Ororo had given him earlier. As he opened the chunky lock as quietly as he could, Logan turned his head to the side, starting to warn Remy about something, "Whatever you do, don't---." But he stopped when he realised Remy was not behind him anymore, in fact he was nowhere in sight. "Damn Cajun." He hissed as the lock finally gave way and he was into the club.  
  
The room wasn't as pitch black as he'd expected it to be, a small amount of light came from behind the bar, the lamps that were positioned there, evidently, were never switched off. Logan wasted no time and after shutting the door firmly behind him, he quickly navigated his way to Forge's office.  
  
Once again he had to fumble with the set of keys; swiftly finding the one Ororo had told him was for the office door. He made his way inside with the minimum of fuss, but all the while wondering where that sneaky swamp-rat had disappeared to---he didn't really trust him. Under normal circumstances he wouldn't have trusted him as far as he could throw him anyway but added to that the way he had treated Ororo, supposedly the dearest person in the world to him, and that marked him down even further in Logan's book.  
  
"Mon Dieu, yo' sure took yaw time, mon ami."  
  
Logan fought hard not to jump as sat right before him was that self-same Cajun; sat on Forge's desk, legs swinging to and fro like an impatient child, shuffling that pack of cards again, grinning up at him.  
  
"What the hell do you think yer doin', bub?" Logan growled as he clicked the door shut gently as possible behind him.  
  
Remy laughed quietly, "Well it's been a while homme. Remy jus' wan'ed to see if he still 'ad de touch." He grinned mischievously as he put the cards in his pocket once more and then slipped off the desk. "I already cased de joint---dere's no bugs."  
  
"Good." Logan replied shortly as he continued his own little scan regardless. Satisfied that Remy was true to his word, Logan went immediately to Forge's desk and flicking on his pencil flash-light that he always kept stashed in his inside pocket he started to look over the papers on the desk. Although he knew that the papers they were looking for would not be among them, whilst they were here he thought he may as well see what else he could pick up.  
  
Remy went over to the filing cabinet in the corner, picking the lock with the minimum of fuss and rifling through quickly, but ascertaining soon enough that they were all of no use. He then began to flip pictures on the walls, checking the space behind all of them for a safe or some other kind of concealed cavity. It was obvious, but always worth a shot as any experienced thief will tell you.  
  
"Hey." Logan called over from the other side of the small room. Remy let the badly faded print of Thomas Gainsborough's 'Mr and Mrs Andrews', slip from his grasp, making a swishing-scrapping noise across the wall paper as it fell back into place, turning his attention to Logan, crouched by a nest of tables with a large rubber plant on top. "Come look at this."  
  
The tall Cajun made his way across the dark room deftly, coming to rest in a crouch at Logan's side. "What yo' found mon ami?"  
  
Logan flashed his thin stream of light onto a small black box set into the corner of the room. It looked solid on first inspection, there seemed to be no entrance from any angle. "Can ya get into this?"  
  
Remy started a sly grin in the darkness before giving a short, knowing laugh. Cracking his knuckles with glee, his long hands out-stretched in front of him, he said, "Oh, Remy's been crackin' shit like dis since before he could walk, homme." He gave his knuckles a couple of extra tweaks for good measure as he proceeded to click his upper few vertebrate also, with two swift movements of his head from side to side. Taking his hat from his head he set it down at his side and went to work.  
  
Logan watched in mesmerised fascination as Remy's dexterous fingers worked their expert magic. Tapping here, pulling there and twisting where necessary. After about two minutes there was a series of clicking noises and with a short scrapping sound, the metal black square object popping up an inch or two from the floor. "Dat's it." Remy whispered to himself---or the box, Logan couldn't tell. But once he'd take that away it revealed a much more conventional looking safe.  
  
"Fuck." Logan muttered, he'd expected it to be there, but it still annoyed him.  
  
"No worries mon ami, yo' 'ave got de---."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know," Logan cut across dismissively. "'De' Gambit." He sounded derogatory but Remy ignored him and set about the real challenge that was now before him.  
  
Placing his ear flat on the small safe door, next to the dial, Remy began to turn it slowly, all the while listening for the tell tale clicks that it takes years of practice, trial and error to notice. Logan stood back, pacing anxiously as he watched the 'master thief' at work. After a few moments and much twiddling of dial, this way and that Remy began to mutter things under his breath Cajun French, as he felt the thick steel door beginning to relinquish its resistance to his charms. Finally, one last resounding click and a noise of smug satisfaction from Gambit and the door swung open.  
  
"Child's play." He exclaimed in a gleeful whisper as he turned back to look up at Logan expecting to be greeted with an approving face, it wasn't often that he had an audience to play up to. But he was disappointed to meet only with Logan's look of complete indifference. Although secretly he was quietly impressed by Remy's ability to crack a state-of-the-art safe in little under a minute flat.  
  
Logan then moved back to the floor and reached into the black chasm of the safe, nudging Remy out of the way as he did so, much to the disgust of the handsome thief. Watching as the gruff Canadian pulled out a small collection of documents that seemed to be all that was contained within, Remy peered over the shorter man's shoulder to try and make out what was written on them, "What's he got den?" He asked eagerly.  
  
Logan didn't reply as he got back up from the floor and made his way over to Forge's desk, studying the papers as best he could as he went with his flashlight. Sitting down in the chair, he blindly reached from the cord on the desk lamp so he could read the information clearly, Remy making his way around the chair to read over his shoulder once more. Logan felt a smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he read the words quickly--- this shit was gold---pure gold. "I've got you now Summers, you sneaky fuck!" He muttered to himself, not able to contain the spiteful joy he felt at finding these papers---they were going to blow the whole thing wide open, the New York establishment brought to its knees.  
  
Remy soon got the gist of the importance of the information contained within those pages and soon realised that this was his ticket, this was his passport to getting the death penalty that had been hanging over his head reprieved at the last minute---not just reprieved but a whole goddamn royal pardon. "What are yo' gonna do wit dis, homme?" His voice was peppered with anticipation.  
  
"I haven't decided, but I've got a lot of ideas, I can tell you that!" It wasn't the answer Remy was hoping for.  
  
"Look homme, dese could get Remy's ass right out of de fire---I need dem."  
  
Logan turned his head to look back at the Cajun, "Well I'm sorry bub, but this just got a lot bigger than savin' yer skinny hide." He said gruffly and then turned back down to look at the 'priceless artefacts' in his hands. Remy wasn't best pleased by this turn of events to say the least and suddenly, as he became angrier his irrational, survive-at-any-cost, instinct took over, the instinct of a hustler---the instinct of a crook.  
  
Logan didn't know what hit him---literally. All he heard was Remy saying, "I'm sorry about dis homme.", before he felt an almighty thud in the soft place just under the bottom of the skull where it meets the neck.  
  
Remy stood over him for a moment, just looking down at him, the swan-shaped paper-weight still it his hand. Then he snatched the papers up from underneath Logan's head, a small pool of blood had collected on them from the wound he'd just inflicted. Giving them a quick shake to flick most of it off, Remy wasted no time in making his exit, dropping the paper-weight carelessly as he went, not glancing back once at the apparently lifeless body of his victim.  
  
* * *  
  
"Urrr..." Logan groaned weakly as his consciousness came back to him in gradual waves. "What the fuck?" He grumbled as he tried to move but found that he unable to, but couldn't quite ascertain the reason why just yet. His heavy lids where still closed but all he could see was the flame red of the blood vessels on their insides, the way that one can when a bright light is shinning in your face and sure enough as they began to flutter open, sending sharp pains in all directions around his head, that bright light was there---directly pointed at his face. He couldn't see anything else but its blinding, white fire, then he attempted to move again and it was then that he realised that he was tied to a chair, hands securely behind him and his legs tied to either leg of the rickety wooden structure. Then, Logan remembered, "LE BEAU, YOU FUCK---WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!" He raged as he tried again to free himself, the chair rocking from side to side dangerously, threatening to topple over.  
  
There was a moment of silence and then a deep, gravelly laugh came somewhere from Logan's left, but he couldn't see anyone---but he didn't need to see the bastard, he knew exactly who it was---Creed.  
  
"Now, now Logan, calm down," It was Forge who spoke, "If you don't stop moving, you'll do yourself a serious mischief." He said with insincere concern as he stepped in front of the lamp, casting himself in menacing silhouette to Logan's eye. "Now that you're back in the land of the living, perhaps you'd care to tell me where my documents have gone?"  
  
"Blow it out yer ass!" Logan spat back, but his angry thoughts were still half on Remy---he knew he shouldn't have trusted that swamp-rat bastard.  
  
"Where are they?" Forge continued unperturbed by Logan's insolence.  
  
"You fuckin' idiot!" Logan barked back. "Does it look like I know where they are---I was sparked-out over the desk for fucks sake, do ya think I did that to myself! Dumb fuck---."  
  
Forge bolted without warning close up to Logan, pulling his right arm back and socking him with a sweet right hook. His head snapped to the side with the blow, piling on yet more pain to his already throbbing skull. Shaking his head once to clear the buzzing sensation in his ears, Logan faced back to the front, blood pouring from his nose, running into his mouth, "That all ya got, ya limp-wristed---." He didn't get to finish his insult once more as Victor Creed stomped in from the darkness, landing a powerful blow into Logan's mid-riff. The chair would have tipped had it not been for Creed catching it with a well-placed foot, bringing it back down again--- only to deliver another punch, this time directly into Logan's chest. He managed to suck in a breath just before, but it was knocked out of him by the force of the hit, exploding out with a burning sting. Logan struggled to catch another breath as Creed moved away and Forge came back in.  
  
"Now listen to me you drunken fuck, I want those papers back, so for your own sake, tell me who has them." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, the keys Ororo had given him earlier. Holding them up in front of Logan he then said, "And I want to know what my double-crossing bitch of a wife has been up to.", hissing the words with barely concealed contempt.  
  
Logan looked at the keys through blood-blurred vision and then he laughed, despite the fact that it was killing his chest to do so. "What's she been up to?" Logan said cryptically in a croaky voice, "She's been comin' to the conclusion that you're a complete prick---that's what she's been up to, bub." He laughed again as a thick glob of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.  
  
Forge scowled, gritting his teeth as he tried to fight the urge to just grab his 45. and blow this bastards brains all over the walls. Walking back over to Creed, he whispered something in the taller man's ear and then left the room. Victor went back over to Logan, placing a hand at either side of his shoulder and leaning in on the chair. "Been a long time, hey Runt?" His rancid breath was thick in Logan's face as he snarled at him. "By the way, how's the little lady?" Logan lost it at that---roaring, he head-butted the blond man square in the face, it probably hurt him just as much as it hurt Creed.  
  
Victor stumbled back, holding his nose as blood crept through the cracks of his cupped fingers, he took his hand away and looked down at the blood that covered them, "Oh, I'm really gonna enjoy this now." He snarled with dark humour as he rushed back over to Logan and punched him again and again and again. After about the tenth blow, which came in the form of an upper cut to the chin, he stopped, a little breathless from all the effort he was putting into this. Pulling his jacket off, he then rolled up the sleeves of his white, blood-splattered shirt and roughly yanked his black tie from around his neck---he really had only just started, there was definitely much more to come. Walking around to the back of the chair, Creed growled into Logan's swollen, 'cauliflower' ear, "When I'm finished with you, I'm gonna find that little bitch and teach her a lesson she won't forget in a hurry---I'm gonna fuck her up reeeeal good." He laughed, "But not before I've done her over---if ya catch my drift."  
  
Logan was too out of it now to respond to Victor's threats to Ororo's safety, but he heard and took in every single word, vowing to kill this sadistic fuck the first chance he got---if he ever laid one finger on her...  
  
"I'm gonna make her plead and beg," the fowl man continued, "But it wouldn't surprise me if the little whore screamed for more---she's always kinda struck me as that type." He gave a vicious, self-pleased snarl/laugh.  
  
Then the beating began in earnest.  
  
* * *  
  
Ororo sat nervous, her leg jumping up and down like an uncontrollable twitch as waited for the return of Remy and Logan. They'd left over four hours ago now and she was becoming increasingly worried---what was taking so long. She looked up at the clock for the millionth time---it was five a.m. and it was growing light outside. She'd tried to get some sleep earlier but it had been no good, she was too on edge to rest.  
  
Had she done the right thing? Wondering this to herself, Ororo went over to the window and looked out at the rain sodden street below. Crossing Forge had taken her great courage and she prayed that it was worth it---but she couldn't quieten the nagging doubt at the back of her mind. Had all of her bridges been well and truly burnt? But this doubt was tempered by thoughts of Darkholme---Raven Darkholme. The flame-haired film and stage siren with a habit of making a play for any man within a ten mile radius---but unfortunately, her radar always seemed to be specifically tuned to the signatures of married men. The press was constantly buzzing with rumours of her flings with co-stars and other public figures, much to the delight of the New York society gossip mongers. Ororo had heard the whispers but had never paid them any mind, in fact she'd just plain forgotten about them--- until Remy had told her straight to her face and she'd had to take notice.  
  
"Bastard." She muttered under her breath as she folded her arms and paced the small living space. But then Ororo was startled from her dark thoughts when a terrible screeching sound from outside and it sent her rushing back to the rain laden window, just in time to see a black car speeding up the road, skidding this way and that on the wet surface of the tarmac. To Ororo's horror she looked on as the car door opened and a man was thrown out of it, the speed never dropping as he was hurled into a pile of bin bags and trash cans with a loud rustle and clatter. She watched, wide eyed as the car sped away, its tyres screaming, back spray and steam coming up from the road as it rounded the corner. Then, when it had disappeared from sight, her eyes dropped back down to the figure laid out cold in the gutter. "Logan!" Ororo gasped in shock and then ran down to get to him as fast as she could.  
  
-TBC-  
  
What do you think? I have to admit, I do like a darker, more morally ambiguous Remy! After all, he was originally meant to be a baddie...! 


	9. Chapter9

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.  
  
A/N: Just a note to say that I've started archiving this story at three other sites (see bio) and at those this story is NC-17. For a while I considered pulling this story from FF.Net but as people appear to be still enjoying it here I decided to leave it up. But I do recommend taking a look at the slightly different version, but if NC-17 ain't your thing, don't worry, I will continue to post it here too, ciao, M'ikosan7,xx  
  
Chapter.9.  
  
With a short, sharp intake of air and a stifled wince, Logan, with considerable help from Ororo, finally settled onto the ruffled, unmade sheets of his bed. Relief flooded through his muscles as he relaxed back, no longer having to tense to stop the various pains that ran through his badly bruised body, from hurting so much.  
  
"That's it." Ororo soothed softly, as gently as possible, taking her arm from beneath his head, letting it sink back into the uncovered pillow.  
  
"Thanks darlin'." Logan said weakly, the cut on his lip cracked open again when he spoke, letting a little stream of crimson trickle down his chin, but he tried to say something more regardless, "'Ro, I'm---."  
  
"Hush," Ororo told him quietly as she grabbed a fresh, cotton hanky from the bedside table and dabbed at the bleeding cut, then wiped the blood from his swollen face, "Don't try to talk just yet---rest."  
  
Logan nodded at her just barely as his eyes drifted closed, taking away the only sight that was giving him comfort---her angelic face. As he appeared to be falling into the warm, black comfort of sleep, Ororo found herself smiling down at him, despite everything. Looking then at his tattered and blood stained clothes, she considered taking them off, fingering for a moment at the tortoise-shell buttons of his ripped shirt but then she thought it could wait for a while. Moving from Logan's side, Ororo went down to the foot of the bed and took off his brown leather shoes, placing them mindfully on the floor. Going from the room, she paused at the doorway, looking back at him, laying there now in a deep sleep, his chest rising and falling in the measured rhythm of true rest. He'd done this for her, he'd put himself in harms way for a woman he barely knew---and it was then that Ororo realised she'd never met a more honourable man in her entire life.  
  
* * *  
  
Several hours later...  
  
"Smells good, darlin'." Logan said as he limped into the living room, a bandage wrapped diagonally from his right shoulder and folding its way around his broad, muscled midriff. From where he was stood he could see straight into the kitchen. Ororo looked up from her concentration on the pan in front of her to smile briefly at him before turning her attention back down to the stove, pushing about its contents every so often with a wooden spatula.  
  
Logan sniffed at the air again, umm, sausages---but they smelled different, more tempting than usual. "What ya cooking?"  
  
Ororo looked up at him again, "It's a recipe my mother taught me as a child- --a traditional Kenyan dish." Logan cocked a quizzical eyebrow, even though it hurt his bruised face like hell to do so. Ororo laughed good-naturedly at the look and carried on stirring. "You'll like it, trust me---I just brought the ingredients fresh from a store I know a couple of blocks away."  
  
"Urr, yeah---I'm sure I will." He replied still not entirely convinced but willing to give anything a shot and it did smell tempting....after all, when Mariko had first suggested that he try raw fish he'd.....The sudden thought of her made his face darken, he hadn't really thought about her for such a long time, not without bitter pain and anguish anyway---he could barely remember the good times anymore, it was all another life time.  
  
"Logan?" Ororo asked in a worried tone, as she took in the look on his face. His head shot up in her direction, but still his face held that expression. "What's the matter?" Her milky brows knitted with deepening concern.  
  
Logan realised what he must have been doing and soon cleared his features of the stain, shaking his head dismissively, he grumbled, "It's nothin' darlin, just thinkin' is all."  
  
"About Forge?" Ororo asked, lifting the heavy pan from the stove, placing it on the side as she flipped the gas dial off.  
  
"Yeah---and Remy." He lied, but almost growled the Cajun's name as his thoughts genuinely turned to him, his blood rising slightly as it passed through his sore lips.  
  
# About time! # Ororo thought to herself, she'd been wondering when Logan would get around to explaining where the hell Remy had gotten to. But given his state on arrival she didn't want to push it---she knew in her heart that her old friend was safe, where ever he was---he had a true knack of snaking his way out of bad situations. And just as much of a knack of leaving others behind in them whilst he scarpered, as Ororo knew from unfortunate personal experience. "Where did he go?" She didn't sound in the least bit anxious.  
  
Logan sucked at his teeth as he considered what to tell her, but he knew it was best if he told her the truth. The more he got to know this woman the tougher she seemed---she could handle it, in fact, he wouldn't be at all surprised if she hadn't expected her 'friend' to pull something like this, she did know him better than anyone else. "I dunno darlin'," he said, his upper lip curled a little with out him realising. "He just grabbed the stuff and ran---unfortunately, I didn't get to see where he went as he'd just knocked me out cold and left me fer dead." Logan couldn't stop himself from slipping into a bitterly sarcastic tone as he recounted the last part of his severely abridged account of the events of last night.  
  
"What?!" Ororo blurted with utter disbelief as she brought a tray containing the meal she had just prepared into the living room. "Why? Why would Remy do something like that?!"  
  
"Because he knew that---argh!" Logan cried out meekly, clutching at his head as a sharp pain ripped through it, locating from the wound inflicted by the afore mentioned Cajun. He bent the top half of his body down to lie horizontal with his thighs, as if to try and stop the hurt by changing the position and level of his head.  
  
"Oh, Logan!" She exclaimed as she ran to him, all thoughts of Remy and his betrayal put aside at her concern for the man before her. Practically dropping the food she'd made, onto the coffee table in front of the sofa where Logan was, she sat on its edge, going to touch his head and then pulling her hands back again as she wasn't sure what to do to help. "What's wrong, are you O.K?" She asked pointlessly, for he clearly wasn't O. K in the slightest, but what else could she do?  
  
"Yep---yep, I'm alright." Logan said in severely clipped tones and then sucked in a harsh breath through his teeth.  
  
"Let me look at that." Ororo requested softly as she leant over and pulled Logan's hands from their position, stuck firmly to the place that the pain emanated from. He reluctantly allowed her to pry his hands off his head as he sat up, surprised to find that her being so close still got his blood up- --even in these most stressful of circumstances. "Ohhh," she 'sang' with the utmost concern, as she examined the awful looking cut at the base of his skull. "Logan, that looks really nasty, you should go to the hospital."  
  
"No need for that," he reassured her, without the necessary knowledge to do so, but then again umpteenth years on 'the force' taught you a lot about the nature of wounds. "I'll be fine darlin'---don't you worry yer pretty little head abut it."  
  
She was about to spout a diatribe against him for several reasons, the most urgent being his patronising comment, but didn't have the chance. Logan reached up with his large hands, taking hers from their unwarranted searching at the back of his head, all the time staring into her blue, blue eyes. Holding both her hands in front of him in some kind of odd deadlock, neither could move and neither could tell what it was that was passing between them. All Logan knew was that he wanted her; he wanted her more than anything he'd ever wanted in his entire life. Despite everything, despite Forge and anything else that blocked the path of these potential lovers, he loved her, he was most certain of that fact and something--- something about her told him that she loved him too. It was unusually confident thinking on his part, but there was just...something...  
  
Ororo stared down at the man in front of her, knowing that their proximity had gone far beyond what was the social norm, and was rapidly developing into something more---something deeper. She swallowed down hard as she struggled to get to grips with what was transpiring between them, her heart beat faster and she felt a burning desire between her thighs, like none she had ever felt before. Moving suddenly to pull away from him, taking her hands from his, she was stopped when Logan roughly grasped her arm. Her breath caught in her throat as she turned down to look at him and then down at his hand on her arm.  
  
"Darlin'." He whispered his familiar call to her, uttered in the most lust filled way, that couldn't be mistaken for anything else but. Ororo looked down into Logan's blue eyes again as her mouth became dry with the shocked excitement of a child in anticipation of trying something new. He pulled her to him, and she fell heavily on her knees to the couch below, her breath becoming heavier by the second. Then she surprised herself immensely at her next action---it was her who moved in and kissed him, baring down on his mouth with the sheer silk of her flawless lips, lips that had been dreaming of this destination for a while now. Soft and light just their lips tasted each other, brushing over one another with the delight and tender nervousness of new exploration.  
  
"Logan..." Ororo whispered into his mouth, wanting to deepen their kiss but scared she may hurt him as she could feel the bad cut on his lip beneath hers---but the decision was taken from her hands as Logan began to kiss her with more force, sinking his bandaged hands into the back of her luscious, thick silver locks. Any pain was more than worth this glorious experience. His large fingers sank deeper and deeper as he pulled her ever closer, searching her mouth on the inside now as his slick tongue found its way over the smooth barriers and into the hot space beyond. She reciprocated willingly, letting hers dance with his, slow and longingly. Almost losing her balance she fell forwards onto him, just about managing to catch herself on the arm of the couch behind Logan's shoulders. She then shifted position, moving her right leg over to the other side of his body, her skirt riding up her long thighs and Logan was only too eager to help it, disentangling his hands from her hair to do so. He sat back up as he began to kiss her with a fierce passion---but abruptly he stopped when he felt her grinding herself into the impossibly hard erection he was now sporting beneath his trousers.  
  
"Urr---god---I'm sorry darlin'." He said, running one finger over his lips and looking anywhere except at her.  
  
"What is it? What's wrong?" She asked huskily as she tried to resume their kiss; but he pulled his head back and then, finally met her blue eyes with his.  
  
"We can't do this sweetheart---I mean---its---."  
  
"It's what?" She shot back quite sharply, leaning back from him slightly and taking herself away from his enlarged groin.  
  
"You're not a whore O. K?!" He snapped back angrily, then calming a little after a deep breath, he continued, "I like you---I really fucking like you, and I can't just---not like this---do you understand?" He searched her eyes to see how she'd taken his little revelation.  
  
Ororo looked at him with indifference for a moment, his words stirring questions in her; was she doing this to get back at Forge? Remy? But then looking down at him, and seeing the tenderness in his eyes she realised it was none of these things---she was doing this because she wanted him, she wanted to be with him, she could see that now. And she knew he wanted her... "Logan, don't put me on a pedestal, Forge did that, and Remy before him and look where that got me." She moved back forwards, placing herself back onto his straining bulge. "I'm not a whore---but neither am I some virginal girl---I want you Logan, just the same as you want me---no one is being used here," She kissed him again tenderly, resuming the rocking motion of her hips, "We're both adults, we know what we're doing." Gripping her waist he laid her down and made love to her.  
  
*  
  
For an age they rocked and thrust, panted and groaned. In and out, up and down, sweat streaming down the hot bodies of the copulating couple.  
  
"OH LOGAN! YES, YES, YES, YES!" She screamed aloud, not giving a care for the fact that it was the middle of the day and that the shoddy walls of this apartment block were not particularly thick. Throwing her head back, her thick platinum mane flaying about wildly, Ororo shook with the uncontrollable tremors of a multiple orgasm lapping over her like the waves of the ocean, crashing into the stern of a boat on stormy seas.  
  
"RRRARRGGHHH!" Logan practically roared as his time came too. He held himself there inside her for a while longer, keeping her legs hoisted over his shoulders, panting and growling all at once as rivulets of sweat ran down his face, dripping onto his exhausted lovers glistening brown skin beneath. Slowly bending down to her body, letting her legs fall back down to either side of him, Logan brought his mouth down to the smooth plain of her abdomen, brushing his lips against it barely as his tongue darted out and he snaked a trail through the layer of sleek sweat. All the way up her body he travelled until he met his destination---Ororo's beautiful, quivering lips. She smiled at him as his face came above hers and they gazed at each other---both convinced of the rightness of their actions--- they fit together, like hand in glove, and at this moment they both knew it. He kissed her softly, holding her heart-shaped face in between two rough but loving hands and he knew he could never let her go---ever.  
  
* * *  
  
At that moment, Westchester, Salem Centre, the Lensherr Country Compound....  
  
Remy had waited in the large reception hall of Magnus Lensherr's magnificent country retreat for over an hour now, tapping his toe in an at once nervous and impatient rhythm on the checked black and white tiled flooring under foot. His strange eyes, which were looking particularly blood red today, flowed lazily from picture to picture---vase to decorative bowl---long, flowing drape to elaborate flower arrangement. The entire room was decked out in Art Deco trinkets and Remy couldn't help but eye up the value of some of the art pieces around him---old habits die hard.  
  
"I trust that when we check this room later," a familiar sweetly, husky voice called to him from the large double doors that sat across the room from the main entrance, "That we'll find everything exactly where we left it."  
  
Remy looked over with a wry grin on his tired face, to see Wanda Lensherr, dressed in her habitual scarlet, her dark hair styled into large, silky ringlets either side of her high, subtly red-blushered, cheek bones, resting lazily on her shoulders. "Good to see yo' again chere." It was a half-truth at least. Standing up, he flicked the edges of his grey suit jacket up, thrusting his hands into his pockets as he sauntered across the room towards her. "Remy's offended dat yo'd tink me so low." He put his hand on his heart as if wounded and as he came to the doorway, he leant his arm high on it, above his head, looking down at Wanda.  
  
She smiled salaciously at him, and through that smile, said, "Just cut the crap Le Beau and follow me." Wanda walked away without hesitation or another word, leaving Remy to drop the easy pretence. Nervously readjusting his tie, the thief set off after her, as was curtly requested. Watching her shapely derriere as she strode down the wide, lofty hallway was the only thing that was keeping his mind off the 'life and death' meeting he was about to attend.  
  
*  
  
Remy entered Magnus Lensherr's roomy office just behind Wanda. He stayed relatively close to the doorway as she went round the other side of the desk to stand at her father's side; her twin brother, Pietro, was at the other side, looking quiet weary and thin, his pure white hair slicked back over his scalp and one pale hand resting on the high back of Magnus's chair. The man himself gazed over at the Cajun in much the same way that he'd looked at Forge nearly two evenings ago now and he was still deeply peeved that the promise that had been made on that night had been most annoyingly broken. So when he'd received a call from Gambit, telling him he had what he'd been in search of for more years than he cared to remember, Magnus hadn't been terribly convinced at all---at least not until he'd seen the documents with his own two eyes.  
  
"So," he began suddenly, taking his lips away from his two index fingers that were joined in a steeple shape. "Do you have them?" He wasn't in the mood to beat about the bush. Remy didn't say a word as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out several badly curled and dog- eared leaves of paper. Taking a short step towards the desk he motioned as if he were about to throw them down on the desk, but swiftly pulled them back.  
  
Holding the precious cargo up by the side of his head, in full view he said, "Dis is de end of it, non? Once I give yo' dese?" He shook the papers almost in time with every word to press his point. Magnus didn't answer, more over the scowl that had been creeping onto his face truly took hold.  
  
"Just hand them over." Was the flatly toned reply. Remy hesitated for a second more, before resigning to do as he was told, tossing the papers across the room, only for Magnus to catch them deftly with a swiftly brought up left hand. He unravelled them slowly, like a lover peeling the clothing off his intended with purposeful leisure, in anticipation of what lay inside. Holding them up in front of his face, to block out the increasingly irritating sight of the sweating Cajun, just the first few lines told him---Erik Magnus Lensherr had found his Holy Grail.  
  
*  
  
"Hey Louie, I'm goin' for a leak, you'll be O. K, yeah?" 'Shortie' Malone was already half-way down the hall way from the Lensherr office when he'd 'requested' temporary leave of his post; walking quickly, Tommy gun swinging lazily to and fro at his side with each step.  
  
"Whatever." Louie replied in an off-hand way around his slim cigarette, hanging dangerously from the corner of his mouth as he flicked idly through the 'funny papers'. Noting that his comrade was otherwise engaged, Shortie took the opportunity to duck off down the opposite corridor than that that led towards the bathroom. Once he'd rounded the corner, completely out of sight, he upped his pace, rushing frantically towards the phone that sat on a mahogany, flower-laden table in the reception area. With shaking hands the goon picked up the receiver constantly checking this way and that to see if there were any other guards roaming the halls. Hastily dialling the number that was written on a small scrap of paper pulled for his pocket, he trapped the head of the receiver between his shoulder and his sweaty ear. Someone picked up immediately.  
  
"This is 'Silver Spoon'," he spoke in almost a whisper, "'The cat is out of the bag', repeat, 'the cat is out of the bag'."  
  
-TBC- 


	10. Chapter10

Disclaimer: Same as before.  
  
Thanks for all the enthusiasm about this story. Makes it a joy to write it!  
  
Chapter.10.  
  
Mayor Warren Worthington rushed down the corridor towards Chief of Police Scott Summers office like a man possessed. Arms stiffly swinging back and forth, like a soldier on parade, he grabbed at the brass door knob of Scott's office and flew in with the momentum of his stride; the door slamming back shut behind him, blinds rattling against clear glass.  
  
"What the hell could have been so goddamn important Scott?"  
  
Chief Summers looked up at Mayor Worthington, the head of the telephone still pressed to his ear, his hand temporarily over the mouth piece to block out the noise of Warren's ungainly intrusion. With his eyes firmly fixed on the man stood before his desk, he slowly removed his hand, saying, "Look, honey---yeah, I understand that, it's just---yeah, yeah---JEAN, will you listen? This isn't a good time right now---I-I-I know---I'll call you later." With that he practically slammed the phone back down onto its raised housing, causing the bells inside to jingle meekly. He was about to explain himself, but Warren didn't give him the chance.  
  
"Do you realise who I was arranging a meeting with, Scott? Do you?!" A truly angry Warren slapped the palms of his hands down onto Scott's desk, his ever-so-carefully preened hair shaking off the weight of the gel that slicked it to the side, allowing one thick bang to droop down into his irate face.  
  
"No Warren," Scott started with customary calm, "But this is---."  
  
"THE PRESIDENT, SCOTT! I was sorting out a meeting with the fucking President!" He stood back from the desk, swiping at the loose lock of blonde hair and pushing it back with the rest. "Do you re---."  
  
"He's got them Warren." There was no need to explain who 'he' was or what 'they' were. Warren felt his mouth become as barren as the Nairobi Desert; his face became as white as deadly Nightshade as the blood drained from it. All of a sudden he had to sit down, so with trembling hands he dragged the padded visitors chair back and plonked himself into it, slumping against the back support, arms draped between parted knees.  
  
"When?" The word was spoken so faintly it was barely audible.  
  
Scott shifted uncomfortably in his seat, scratching at his forehead before raking his hand up through his light brown hair. "This afternoon." There was a long silence which was eventually harshly interrupted by an unexpected laugh from the Mayor. "What?" Scott inquired sharply, as far as he was concerned this was very far from a laughing matter. Warren looked his oldest friend straight in the eyes as he continued to laugh in more of a pronounced chuckle now, so much so in fact that his shoulders began to convulse in time with his misplaced 'merriment' and he let his head fall back. "WHAT?!"  
  
Bringing his head back forwards in accordance with Scott's more than annoyed exclamation, any hint of him taking this situation lightly disappeared. His features took on a completely sombre look as he replied flatly, "Well what else did you expect Scott?"  
  
Scott Summers hated conceding to the fact that he ever made mistakes. Maybe it was the spectre of his adoptive father; growing up with this example of outstanding humanitarianism, this seemingly perfect moral being gave him the complex he now lived with. It was all very well and good adhering to the idea that 'the sins of the father will be passed onto the sons' but what if the said father had no sins to pass onto his son, only a blinding beacon of righteousness, a man who died for his beliefs no less. The whole 'calling in the Mancini's' debacle was a prime example, as far as Scott was concerned, of him not living up to the irreproachable bench-mark Charles Xavier had set, failing him yet again. When the 'hit' had gone awry, Warren had been hysterical with worry, but Scott had convinced him that Forge would be scared now, that he wouldn't do anything rash, especially after him planting the seeds of doubt in the Cheyenne's mind about who was responsible. But the call from 'Shortie' Malone two hours ago had proved his confidence ill-founded. That, plus the added annoyance that Remy Le Beau was the supplier of the papers. That was what confused Scott the most; what the hell had all this got to do with 'Le Blanc Diablo'? And how had he got his hands on them? Well, that was a no-brainer, seen as he was the best goddamn thief working on the east coast, (although it was some years since he'd deserved that reputation), but why? Why would he want to help Erik Lensherr?  
  
"Look, it wasn't even Forge who gave the fucking papers to Lensherr, O. K?" Scott snapped by way of justification of his original advice.  
  
"Well that doesn't matter all that much now does it?" Warren replied in the most sarcastic manner. "He's got them---now what are we going to do Scott?" He was rapidly regaining the angry demeanour he'd walked into the office with, he knew his ass was on the line here, this had been he outcome he was dreading.  
  
Scott stood up from his chair, once again scratching his forehead, but this time feeling the small beads of sweat that colleted on the worry-creased skin. There was nothing else for it; he had to admit that he'd made an error of judgement---that he, Scott Summers at el Chief of the New York Police Department, Scott Summers the model of repressed conformity, had made...a mistake, a grievous one at that. He sauntered slowly over to the coffee pot that was placed on a small table, just by the wide window, that had a stunning view of the city. Pouring out a strong, steaming cup of black liquid, the only measure of comfort he could give to Warren was, "We'll just have to wait and see what happens." They were scant words of comfort indeed.  
  
* * *  
  
Ororo carefully stepped out of the free-standing porcelain bath-tub onto the cold, white linoleum floor. She was about to turn to reach for the bath towel when she felt it being wrapped around her from behind, it soft woollen texture instantly soaking up the stray droplets of warm water that ran down her body. "Thank-you." She whispered huskily as she felt welcome, hot lips bare down on her exposed left shoulder, making their way up her statuesque neck with slow, attentive care. Logan, who was still sopping wet from their shared bath, small 'tear-drops' of water falling down from his hair onto Ororo's glistening skin, eventually brought his mouth to her delicious small ear. He nibbled at the soft, fleshy bottom of the lobe for a moment, eliciting wistful laughs of pleasure from the goddess, that he now had his strong arms wrapped around at the waist. Moving his lips up to her actual ear, his warm breath and stubble brushing against her skin, he said, "Yer welcome darlin'." Before taking his mouth back down onto her neck, kissing it much more intently now.  
  
It was almost completely dark outside, dusk fighting to stave off the inevitable march of nights black blanket and the new lovers hadn't set foot outside all day, save for Ororo's little trip to the store hours ago. All other concerns had been lost to them in their seemingly endless exploration of each other, even in the bath-tub, their cavorting had not stopped. Logan turned her round to face him now, never letting his lips leave her fragrant flesh as he snaked his way up to her inviting lips, entangling his hands into her wet, tussled hair. Ororo smiled beneath from his mouth as she felt yet another eager erection pushing against her through the thickness of not only the towel that covered her from breast to upper thigh, but also the similar length of material that was wrapped around his lower body.  
  
"Do you ever tire?" She jested, before letting him slip his tongue into her mouth as he reached down and shoved his hand under the hem of her towel, gripping at her supple hips.  
  
Breaking from their kiss briefly, he growled, "Never!" She let her long fingers trail down his back, enjoying the surprisingly nice feel of the fine layer of really quite soft, dark hair that covered it. But then her dextrous digits came across something hard; touching carefully at a long, raised scab of a cut that had been inflicted last night by...she realised then that she didn't actually know, but most definitely had a fair idea as to the identity of the culprit. "Who did Forge use?"  
  
Logan pulled away from her, letting his hands slid down to her mid-thighs, facing her with an unintentional scowl. The fact that she had used that name after what they'd just done together severely pissed him off. "What?" Ororo questioned innocently, letting her hands slide up to cup over one another on his thick neck; she didn't have any idea of the ill she'd just caused him.  
  
"I don't wanna hear you say his name." He more or less commanded as he pulled her towards him again, forcing her to wrap her arms around him fully. She nodded, conceding to his order without question, even though it was most unlike her to pander to male demands. Somehow, this didn't seem to bother her because she knew that she'd be happy if she never thought of that man again, much less set eyes on him. With that in mind, Ororo reached for the small band of gold that nestled at the bottom of her second finger on her left hand and quickly began to pry the offending object off. Although she had to shimmy it up with small movements from side to side, the wedding ring did come off relatively easily. Logan pulled his head back once more as she brought the item around to hold up between their faces. He eyed it darkly, before shifting his gaze to her cerulean eyes, letting it drift down to the smile that was playing on her gorgeous lips.  
  
"He..." She said most pointedly, "...is forgotten." With those words she tossed the finely crafted piece of twenty four carat gold over her shoulder toward the sink at her back, not turning to see it bounce about the bowl with an at first slow *tinking* sound that rapidly sped up as the ring near the black gaping plug-hole, eventually disappearing down it, never to be seen again.  
  
"That's more like it." Logan said quietly, close to Ororo's mouth before kissing her lovingly and stamping his official claim on her. And for the first time in years he felt truly...alive.  
  
* * *  
  
Remy Le Beau wasted no time when he got to the door of his hotel room; opening the door quickly and making a bee-line straight for the bottle of whiskey that sat on his bedside cabinet. The room was only lit by one stream of cold moonlight that had somehow managed to find its way through the thick curtains but he didn't need light, most of all he didn't want it. His revulsion at himself seemed less cutting, less vicious when it was bathed in darkness, he had no idea why this was and nor did he care. He twisted the cap off, dropping it to the floor and clasped his lips around the top of the bottle like a babe around its mother's teat, threw his head back and gulped for all his worth. #Again# came the taunt in his tortured mind, #you've done it to her again.# This wasn't the first time he'd let Ororo down in order to save his own skin, although technically he hadn't let her down, but he got the impression that she liked that hairy little grump and as far as he knew he'd probably killed him.  
  
"Even if I didn' kill de homme, Monsieur Forge probably did." He grumbled ruefully to himself before going to take another long swig.  
  
"Not Mr. Forge, Swamp-rat." Remy dropped the bottle in shock, its shattering noise on contact dulled by the carpet, but he didn't dare turn to see where the deep, gravelly voice was coming from because he recognised its owner instantly. "But I sure did have a good go---he may be dead, he might not." Victor Creed stood up from the stool that he'd been sat on ever since he'd broken in and awaited the Cajun's eagerly anticipated return to his abode. Walking slowly to where the tall thief stood stock-still, back still turned, he continued, "My employer has eyes and ears everywhere Le Beau, it didn't take him to long to figure out it was you. Besides, I recognised yer handy work on the safe, plus your name was the first thing the Runt said when he eventually came round. He was royally pissed and make no mistake!" Creed laughed as he stopped, about twenty inches away from Remy. "Sure, I could have come clean but then that would have robbed me of the pleasure of beatin' the shit outta that cocky little ass-hole. Although I have to commend ya, that was quite some job ya did on him before ya high- tailed it---yer nasty little fucker at heart ain't ya Le Beau." He laughed again and it took all of Remy's self-control to stop from turning and bringing his leg up in a Roundhouse kick to break the bastard's neck.  
  
Clenching his fists tightly at his sides Remy said, with obvious fury seething through his hissed words, "What de fuck yo' want?" He turned slowly to face his old adversary, staring him down in the pitiful light from beneath a deeply furrowed brow. "Lensherr's got dem. Dere ain't much I can do about dat now, is dere?" His breathing began to increase in speed as his anger rose.  
  
"Well, that all depends now doesn't it Swamp-rat." Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Creed suddenly put his finger to his temple, in mock gesture of thought. "Hey, that reminds me, I never did pay you back directly for that caper ya pulled did I?...Well, I did pay ya back in a way, but Henri---." Remy snapped on hearing his little brother's murderer mention his name, rushing over to make up the small distance between them and thumping him expertly in the jaw. As Victor rolled with the punch he reached into the inside left-hand pocket of his dark trench-coat, quickly drawing out his small and nifty revolver.  
  
Remy halted as the gun was brought up swiftly into his face, but he was still too furious to feel fear, his mind focused on Henri and the vengeance he'd never had the opportunity to exact on his killer. "Heh, heh, heh...not so tough now, are ya boy?" Victor sneered as he took a step closer, rubbing idly at his smarting face with his free hand.  
  
"Dat shit had nuhddin' to do wit mon frere." Remy thrust an accusing finger at the other man as he continued to shout, "Yo' shoulda left Henri outta it! De boy was fifteen years old yo' sick fuck! He didn' deserve ta die like dat! He didn'---."  
  
Creed knocked Remy's hand to the side with the revolver. "Quit yer whinin'! He was a member of the Guild; he got what was comin' to him! Ya live a dangerous life, ya run with dangerous people, then ya know what to expect when it all goes wrong! Wasn't my fault that he had a dumb fuck like you for a brother." He wrapped his thumb around the hammer and cocked it, readjusting his grip on the handle to account for his sweating palms. "Ya shoulda heard him Cajun, beggin' for his life like a little fuckin' girl he was---even when I let him drop off that twenty story buildin', screamin' all the way down he was!"  
  
"I fuckin' swear, gun or no gun homme, yo' say one more word, JUST ONE!" He was practically shaking with anger now, which is probably what prompted him to go through with his next rash action. Remy's hands flew up making a grab for the gun, but Creed held it fast, raising it above his head. Both men struggled to pry one another's fingers from the gun, stumbling about the dark room haphazardly, bashing into furniture, turning small tables over as they snaked their blind path, empty drinking classes and unused flower vases smashing to the ground. They grunted with effort through gritted teeth, unexpectedly matching each other in terms of strength, perhaps a little more through sheer determination on the Cajun's part though. Somewhere in the struggle the gun went off with a loud and painful bang, sending plaster down on the men, where its lead projectile had hit the already flaking ceiling. The black revolver fell from both of their grasps, skidding and bouncing across the carpet to some unseen destination. Lunging in its general direction, Remy was brought crashing to floor by a stinging kick to the small of his back by Creed, smashing his chin on the floor.  
  
"OOF!" He inadvertently let out the 'comical' sound as his chest contacted with the floor, winding him, groaning meekly as he felt his mouth fill with blood from where his top teeth had bitten down into his bottom lip. He was dimly aware of his enemy making his way past him, chuckling smugly, thinking the battle was all but won. But he was wrong, severely wrong; Remy pushed himself up just enough to swing his lower body round to the front, close to the floor, tripping the retreating Creed so that he fell into the chest of drawers, the object they both presumed the weapon had scuttled under.  
  
"Fuck!" Victor bellowed as his forehead connected with the sharply carved edge of the pine piece of furniture with a sickening crack, splitting the vast space of skin open across its entire length; a waterfall of crimson bursting forth to stain his pain contorted face. Remy leapt up from the ground, automatically wiping the blood from his chin with the back of his hand as he did so. Purposely stepping on Creed's broad back, when he could have easily stepped over him, Remy bent down and quickly found the gun, which had settled close to the front of the gap between the drawers raised bottom and the carpet.  
  
"Get up!" Remy ordered curtly as he pointed the revolver down at Creed's head; right index finger firmly on the trigger, pushing the hammer back down, ready for the next shot from the six barrel (sans one) chamber. But all the while the question raged in him; Can I? Even as Victor Creed raised slowly to his knees, holding Remy's gaze the whole time with unnerving guts, the thief questioned himself relentlessly on the inside of the seemingly uncompassionate and unmoved exterior. Could he? Could he pull that trigger, right into a man's face? "I should fucking kill yo' for what yo' did." His words were dark but measured---controlled even.  
  
Despite the fact that he now had the end of his own gun pressing against his bleeding forehead, Victor Creed grinned, his usually sharp, white teeth were now a pinkish-red with blood. "You better pull that trigger Le Beau, because no man holds a gun to my head and lives." Small streams of blood infused spittle sprang from his sinisterly twisted mouth as he spoke, all the time continuing to stare at his would-be killer, no fear in his eyes, most of all no fear in his heart and he knew Remy could sense this. It was the ultimate move that had saved his skin thus far; show your opponent no weakness in the face of the abyss and you have won. It wears them down, makes them question their own strength, gives you an inch...and sometimes that inch is all you need. Sometimes...  
  
"Den Remy guess he'd better pull it den." Without a second more for thought, for doubt to creep in Remy Le Beau applied just the right amount of pressure with his 'trigger' finger, unloading one round square into the centre of Creed's head; the bullet passed straight through in a downwards, diagonal trajectory, exiting out the back of his neck, just at the base of his skull with an explosion of bone, brain and thick blood. The shot man's mouth fell open, his eyes wide and disbelieving at what was presumably the last thought to run through his head; the realisation that he really was about to die, that he really had just been shot. His massive bulk gradually started to crease downwards, to Remy's, eyes in slow motion, before 'real time' resumed and his lifeless body fell backwards, hitting the floor with a muffled thump. A black-looking pool began to spread beneath Creed's head as his light blue eyes 'stared' up at the ceiling, his legs bent almost parallel against his back.  
  
For a moment Remy thought he would retch, he couldn't move. Frozen to the spot; his mind didn't seem to be able to absorb the enormity of what he'd done. The murder weapon slipped from his sweat-slicked hand, hitting the floor to the left of its victim, making a dull thud. There were no thoughts of justice, of revenge, of 'the-bastard-got-what-he-deserved'. At this point Henri Le Beau was the farthest thing from Remy's mind, his own guilt wasn't. Only a day prior, yes, he'd smashed a man over the head and potentially left him for dead, but it was never his intention to kill him, just keep him out of the picture for a while. This was much different. He'd pulled that trigger with the fullest intention; he had pulled it and known the inevitable consequence. Survival at all costs? If this was survival, the true face of it, then he really wasn't sure if he wanted it. He really wasn't sure if he wanted it at all.  
  
In a state of severe confusion, Remy left the hotel room, leaving everything as it was, with no immediate idea of where he was headed or what he was going to do once he'd gotten there. The body, the gun; everything that would probably earn him a not to welcome seat in the electric chair.  
  
* * *  
  
*BRIIING, BRIIING!* The telephone practically rattled, threatening to gyrate off the sideboard. *BRIIING, BRIIING!*  
  
"You'd better answer that." Ororo admitted reluctantly as she pulled back from Logan's mouth, smiling up at him as she ran her hand affectionately down his arm. He ignored her request initially; leaning in toward her to kiss her some more as they both lay on his bed, entangled in sheets. She laughed through it, weakly pushing him from her again. "Seriously---it may be important."  
  
*BRIIING, BRIIING!*  
  
"Yeah...alright." He muttered disappointedly as he stole another kiss, but after everything that had happened he supposed that there was the quite distinct possibility that the call might be important. So with one last lingering taste of her irresistible lips he disentangled himself and went to answer the phone, pulling on his trousers as he walked into the living room. Getting to the phone, he quickly picked up the receiver. "Hello." The short tone of his voice indicated that he clearly wasn't happy at the interruption. There was no answer. "Hello." Even more irritated this time. And then, much to his chagrin, the phone went dead. "Fuckin' idiots." He grumbled under his breath, although the cut off call did bother him, he tried to dismiss it because he had a habit of reading too much into things.  
  
"Who was it?" Logan's head snapped round as he placed the phone back down, taking in the alluring sight of Ororo wrapped in nothing more than a white sheet, one long silky smooth leg visible through the gap at the front of the hastily constructed covering. A most beautiful sight if ever there was one.  
  
"Oh, no-one darlin'---nothin' important." Running a hand through his dishevelled hair, he fought the urge to go over to her and take her, yet again, and instead moved into the kitchen. "You want a coffee?" He called back out to her.  
  
"Umm, yes---black, no sugar." Ororo wasn't completely convinced by his reply about the phone call, but she was willing to let it lie. Anyway, her attention had turned to the heavy rain that was pounding outside; she did so love extreme weather. The loud and never ending thud, beating on the windows mesmerised her to an extent, as she moved towards the window to look out at it, holding the sheet up about her breasts with a strategically placed clenched fist. What she really wished for though was a storm, they were her favourite. She looked out through the rivulets and random specs of water that ran down the dirty window-pane, getting lost in thought...  
  
*BRIIING, BRIIING!*  
  
"OH!" Ororo jumped, her hand that was not holding the sheet in place, flying up to the exposed area of her chest as if to still her briefly rapid beating heart. "I'll get it!" She started to go for it when she heard Logan's protestations.  
  
"Just leave it 'Ro, it's probably nothin'." He came into the living room then, to check that she wasn't answering it.  
  
"Why?" She asked confused as she picked it up anyway, moving her thick hair from blocking her ear with a quick toss of her head before bringing the phone up to it. "Hello?"  
  
There was a brief pause, in which she could hear the pounding of the rain through the receiver, whoever it was, was calling from an outdoor call-box. Then came the reply. "Stormy?"  
  
-TBC- 


	11. Chapter11

Disclaimer: Don't own them, don't sue.  
  
Thank-you for the reviews and your patience!  
  
Chapter.11.  
  
"You've sure got some nerve Remington!" Ororo hissed quietly down the phone, attempting to hem her words in with a cupped hand around the receiver head and her mouth. She glanced back at Logan to see what he was doing, not to comfortable to see him watching her, clearly wondering who it was she was talking to.  
  
"Look out de window 'Roro."  
  
Ororo turned back to face the front, away from her lover's piercing gaze. "What?"  
  
"Please 'Ro, jus' look out de window." He had to shout to make himself heard over the unconscionable din of the rain, still pounding the streets relentlessly. With one more quick look at Logan over her shoulder (still staring and increasingly pissed), Ororo moved over to the window, in the same spot more-or-less that she had been standing in just a moment ago. She looked left; she looked right but couldn't see anything on the street, the bright orange light of the lamps that lined the sidewalk being reflected off the ground tenfold by the rain. "A little more to yaw right 'Roro--- dat's it---a little more." And there he was, looking up at her from an unsheltered phone, no hat, dripping wet, probably sodden to the skin. "I need to talk to yo' chere."  
  
Something in the tone of her old friend's voice stopped Ororo from being mad, he really sounded like he needed her...but not like usual. He stared up at her, not saying a word over the receiver but nor did she for the longest time. "Look, urm---just go to the bar around the corner---'Tommy's' I think it's called. I'll meet you there in five, O. K?" Remy nodded at her and hung up, rushing off in the direction of their imminent meeting place. Ororo slowly brought the phone down from her ear as she watched after him, dreading the conversation she was just about to have before it had even started. She turned quickly, hanging up and making her way straight for the bedroom, not looking at Logan once, but she would have to pass him. She almost got to the doorway before he caught her at the elbow, bringing her to the side to stand in front of him.  
  
"Who was it darlin'?" Like he needed to hear her say it, but it was a formality worth going through, a test of sorts he supposed. Would she lie to him?  
  
Eventually she brought her eyes up to meet his, subtly removing herself from his light grasp as she did so. "It's---it's not who you think. I can't just---Logan please," she pressed close to him, running her free hand up into his hair, "you have to trust me my love." Kissing him softly she then said, "I have to do this." She looked at him then as if expecting his approval or something, but none was forthcoming as he walked past her without a word, picking up a cigar from an oriental, carved box on the coffee table and went about the elaborate 'ritual' of preparing it to be smoked. Ororo watched him, not being able to help the guilty feeling that was washing over her but she had to do this none-the-less. So she went to the bedroom and set about getting changed.  
  
In no more than five minutes, (which had to be some sort of a record), Ororo came back out into the living room, placing the last few pins into her hat as she went. Logan didn't look at her as she strode across the room in the direction of the door; he simply gazed out of the window from his slouched position in his favourite chair, which was tellingly much more worse for wear than even the others. Bringing his now lit cigar to his lips he clasped them around it and inhaled deeply at which point a blinding streak of lightening flashed outside, closely followed by a deafening crack of thunder.  
  
"Be careful." Logan warned her but still wouldn't face her, seemingly concentrating on the extreme weather outside. Ororo was about to thank him and reassure him that there was no real need to worry but instead her head snapped round to the window just as the second bolt tore through the inky sky and the wind began to howl furiously. The storm had begun...  
  
* * *  
  
Scott Summers was knelt down by the rapidly stiffening corpse of Victor Creed, a man he had been unfortunate enough to know in life but thankfully not very well. What knowledge he did have on the deceased told him that as much as any death can be deserved, his was certainly as close to it as you could get. But all this was not Scott's concern as he dipped his index and middle finger into the pool of thick red blood that had soaked into the carpet by the victims head, bringing them up for closer inspection. He ran his thumb over the tips of his fingers, testing the viscous substance as his mind pondered what had brought these events to pass. Of course, he already knew who the murder was and the reason for it as plain as day, Remy Le Beau had been put into a position where it was either him or Forge's muscle man. The choice clearly wasn't too difficult, but Scott's mind was working over time now, trying to think of a way he could turn this all to his, or moreover Warren's advantage, although he was so deep in this now that he was just as much up to his neck in it as his erstwhile best friend.  
  
"I never trusted the guy, ya know? Well, who the hell would trust a guy with eyes like that, heh? Red like blood they was..." Scott had one ear on the statement that the hotel's concierge was giving to Officer Fitzgerald just behind him as all around other officers collected evidence into clear plastic bags and snap-happy forensic photographers took pictures of the corpse and surrounding area from every conceivable angle. There was already a B.P out on Le Beau to every officer in the City and cars were posted at the bridge should he try to get back to the mainland, the scenario that was most likely. But he'd given all squads specific instructions that if apprehended, the suspect was to be taken to the islands main police station, to be questioned personally and only by the Chief himself. It was a rather unusual order to say the least but no-one was in a position to question it.  
  
*CRACKLE* Chief Summers this is squad car 28954, over. *CRACKLE* Scott's radio had startled him slightly as it burst without warning into life. He unclipped the small black rectangle from his belt as he stood up, turning his back on Creed's lifeless form. *CRACKLE* This is Chief Summers; I'm receiving you, over. *CRACKLE* He released the button at the side and listened intently for a reply.  
  
*CRACKLE* We've had a report of the possible whereabouts of the suspect and we are on our way to check it out now, over. *CRACLKE*  
  
A small smile of nervous satisfaction crept onto Summers' thin lips as he pressed the button once more, bringing the radio back up to his mouth. *CRACKLE* Good, keep me posted, as soon as there are any developments, I want to know. A.S.A.P. You got that? Over.*CRACKLE*  
  
*CRACKLE* Certainly Sir, this is 28954 signing out, over. *CRACKLE* With that same smile still ghosting on his face, Scott slowly replaced his radio as he turned back around to find the morgue guys had put the body into a black bag, that they'd struggled to get zipped up due to his abnormal height and it was now taking five grown men to lift the dead man from the floor and onto the stretcher. But all Scott could think about now was getting back to the station to await the delivery of their only direct link to Lensherr, a link that could prove most beneficial. The plan that was only now beginning to formulate in his mind. Quickly, without a word to anyone, Scott made his way from the room and back to his base of operations.  
  
* * *  
  
Remy played distractedly with the butt edge of his lit cigarette, tweaking it in a quick rhythm with his short thumbnail, every so often taking a long, deep drag. He did so now, his hand trembling as he brought the white stick to his still rain wet lips, although the tremor was curtailed somewhat by the fact that his elbows where leaning firmly on the booth table in front of him.  
  
"Here ya go buddy."  
  
"Wha--?!" Remy jumped as the waiter spoke, his head whipping up to look at the portly figure as he placed a bottle of cheap whisky and a small glass from his tray onto the table.  
  
"Your drink, ya know, the one you just ordered?" The stocky man said as if he were addressing a retard. It didn't help that Remy stared at him for a little longer, looking completely at a loss, until he finally snapped out of it.  
  
"Oh, right homme. Merci, merci." He mumbled as he looked down at the liquor that had been placed before him like it was the first time he'd seen alcohol.  
  
The waiter's brow furrowed as he looked down at the soaking wet man, genuinely concerned at his spaced out demeanour. "Hey, you O.K, Cajun?" He'd spent quite a bit of time in New Orleans in the past and he could spot a French Quarter accent from twenty paces. But he received no response, so with a shrug of his broad shoulders he left Remy's side to go get the order of the only other customer in the joint. Remy stubbed out his cigarette that he'd smoked almost past the light brown mottled filter and started to pour his drink, the only thing he was aware of at this point in time was the sloshing sound of the liquid crashing in the stubby, thick glass and the beating of the rain that was punctuated with the odd rumble and crack of the more hostile weather elements.  
  
*  
  
Ororo spotted her 'friend' immediately; hunched in the corner, his auburn hair sopping wet and slicked back, rain running down the back of his brown trench coat, giving it a slippery sheen like it did to the pavements outside. She lowered her brolly, giving it a couple of rough shakes before closing it completely walking quickly and determinedly over to him, waiting until he put his drink down before she took her next course of action.  
  
"Stor---!" *WHACK!* Ororo slapped him with all the force she could muster, making his head snap violently to the side and once he'd taken his hand away from his stinging cheek a large red mark made itself visible even through the stubble. Without a word she took the opposite seat in the booth from him, picking up his glass and taking a sip. But she had to fight the urge to spit it back out into the glass; it tasted like cat piss, particularly potent cat piss but cat piss none-the-less. Years of being married to Forge had given her pallet a taste for the more refined things, especially when it came to whisky. Placing the glass back down with a look of utter distain, she shifted her gaze over to Remy, who was now rubbing his still burning cheek, with eyes of the coldest ice, waiting for him to plead his case.  
  
After a moment he stuttered, "'Roro, I---I dunno what to say, I---."  
  
"You could start by apologising you insufferable bastard!" She whispered the expletive at him, leaning forwards conspiratorially as if it horrified her to say the word in public.  
  
"I'm sorry O.K?! Remy's fuckin' sorry." He had no-such qualms about swearing in the company of strangers. "I did what I had to do chere," He grabbed the glass and drained its contents in one go. "I'm not proud of dat- --but it's too late to change it now." A moment passed where in neither spoke or even looked at each other, Ororo trying to contain her fury and Remy having several more glasses of the 'cat piss', as far as he as concerned alcohol was alcohol. Just as he was about to start the fifth one he asked tentatively, "De homme---Logan---he is O.K ain't he?" His nose dived into the glass.  
  
"Yes, Logan is fine." She sat back in the seat, crossing her legs. "But no thanks to you."  
  
Remy took his face from the glass, holding it frozen in front of him for a moment as he nodded, then as he set it down, he said, "Good---I know yo' might not believe me but Remy's glad abou' dat chere."  
  
Ororo had a spiteful retort just on the tip of her tongue but forced herself to swallow it, deciding instead to graciously accept his apology and concern as genuine, although she doubted that if Logan himself where here he would do the same. She knew that underneath it all, Remy was once a decent man, a thief yes, but still a good man. After Henri, he'd lost it and in some way she supposed she still felt guilty, guilty for walking out on him at his lowest ebb, but at the time she felt she'd done everything she could for him. He was almost...beyond hope. But now was not the time for debating the rights and wrongs of the past. "Well?"  
  
"Well what?"  
  
"Why am I here? Surely you didn't get me here just to offer you're apologies," her crystal clear eyes narrowed, "I know you too well Cajun."  
  
Remy's eyebrows knitted together, "Didn' Logan tell yo'? Abou' what we found in Forge's office?"  
  
"No." Ororo stated flatly, doing a good job at hiding her embarrassment. She'd been with the man for over twenty four hours and hadn't once thought to ask about them, but to be fair; they had been somewhat...distracted. "Does it really matter?"  
  
"If yo' wanna know why yo've jus' put yo life in danger from both sides of de law den yeah, it does!" Remy was genuinely irritated that she didn't seem to be unduly worried that once this whole thing came out, everyone who'd so much as heard of the documents existence was probably going to get dragged down by this, himself included now that he thought about it. But as Forge's wife, if it came to light that he had been blackmailing the Mayor, she would most likely be caught in the hoo-ha as well, after all, they'd already made one attempt on her life.  
  
"What is this all about Remy?!" She was trying hard to be strong but she could feel the tears, that where mainly of frustration it has to be said, stinging at the backs of her eyes. "Why where Forge and I nearly killed, who wanted us dead?!"  
  
"I'm surprised yo' hadn't worked at least dat one out fo' yo'self chere--- it was de Mayor, an' it was probably de Mancini's he got to do de dirty work." He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a misshapen packet of Marlborough's, retrieving a rather bend and sad looking cigarette. "De reason that Monsieur Lensherr an' Monsieur Worthington wanted de stuff Forge had is because dey prove what he been sayin' all along, dat de Worthington family where involved in de 'Tufano Scandal' in de twenties."  
  
Ororo was only vaguely aware of the affair that happened in 1921 that had caused a massive, almost fatal upset in the power establishment of the city, namely the prestigious Worthington family, one of the oldest families on the East coast. "In what way?"  
  
Remy leant forwards, bringing the tip of his cigarette into the match he'd just struck, waving his hand vigorously to extinguish it before tossing it into the ashtray. "De whole 'Tufano' shit was about money launderin', t'rough dis phoney company dat had been set up in Erik Lensherr's name, but it was mainly funded wit Worthington money. Dat's what dey prove, dat de Worthington family where makin' a tidy profit offa Organized Crime; copies of accounts, false bankers records, yo' name it, de whole lot, it's in dose papers."  
  
"Why would they need to?, they've always been wealthy." Ororo didn't try too hard to disguise the contempt in her voice.  
  
"Dat's what people didn' realise at de time, de Worthington's had los' almos' evert'in' after de Great War. Worthington de Second had sunk mos' of de family money into arms manufacturin' and after de war, when de demand dried up an' the bottom fell out o' de world economy, de homme was almos' broke." He took a long drag on his cigarette, his next words coming out with a cloud of yellow smoke. "Dat's when he met Lensherr, he was up an comin' in de New York underworld at de time an wit what money he had left, they set up de Tufano Shippin' Company. But de homme wasn' stupid chere, he made sure all documents and contracts where signed t'rough Lensherr and when de whole t'ing blew up, it was de Polish immigrant dat went down an' not de 'old money name'."  
  
"Figures." Ororo muttered bitterly, feeling the need for a stiff drink and deciding to brave another sip of Remy's, or more over a gulp.  
  
"As yo' can imagine, Lensherr's been itchin' fo' revenge evah since but all de accounts dat he kept copies of went missin' durin' de investigation an' when he was released from de State Penitentiary eight years ago he been lookin' fo' dem."  
  
Ororo took in a thoughtful deep breath, "I wonder where Forge got his hands on them?" The question appeared to be addressed to herself, but Remy stabbed a guess anyway.  
  
"De Marko's? Cassidy's? Who de hell knows, someone probably owed him--- fuck, everyone owes someone somet'in' in dis town at one time or anuddah, maybe he jus' got lucky."  
  
"Oh, you mean like you where?" Her tone was more than a little spiteful.  
  
He flashed her a guilty look and reached over for the glass that was still in Ororo's hand; she conceded it to him willingly. "I am sorry chere, yo' gotta believe me." With his free hand, Remy reached over again, this time laying it on her slender creamy coffee coloured one, squeezing it gently. "I keep on lettin' yo' down, I nevah mean to, it's jus'---." Words failed him because there were none; nothing he could say or do could excuse his actions so there was no longer any point in trying. He set his drink down, his smoke still smouldering away between two fingers as he brought that hand up to his face, stretching his thumb and index finger so they could settle at the far corner of each eye.  
  
"Remy, it's O. K, I'm still angry---but I forgive you." A mixed look of softness and worry flooded Ororo's face as she watched her dejected friend, it was then she noticed that there was something more to this, something else was bothering him. "Remy, what's wrong?"  
  
He shook his head at first, loath to answer her, but eventually, after bringing his hand down from shielding his eyes and taking in a few more lung-fulls of smoke, he replied, "I gone done somet'in' stupid 'Roro," He finally turned his gaze to meet hers, something like desperation burning in them, "But I had no choice---Creed would've---."  
  
She didn't give him chance to finish, "Creed would have what?" she asked, quietly, not surprised that the detestable creature had tracked Remy down.  
  
Suddenly both their heads shot to face the door as it burst open, not only the noise of the raging storm becoming louder to startle them, but also, the shrill shouting of several armed police officers rushing in their direction.  
  
"REMY LE BEAU, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST FOR MURDER, YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SLIENT, ANYTHING YOU DO SAY..."  
  
Ororo looked on in confused terror as she watched three of the five officers in total set upon Remy; throwing him to the ground, cuffing his hands behind his back as the most senior among them continued to scream the legal rights that accompany all arrests, at him. Remy didn't struggle or utter a word, in fact he looked completely resigned to this, as if he'd been expecting it. It was only when the other two officers grabbed Ororo that he broke his silence. "Get yaw hands offa her! Dis got nothin' ta do wit her!" He strained his head upwards as all the while, the officer that had his knee in Remy's back tried to force it back down to the wet floorboards.  
  
"Remy! What's going on?" Ororo cried out in panic as she too was being put into hand cuffs, albeit more gently, but she still struggled.  
  
"Don't worry chere! It's gonna be O.K, yo' here!" Remy tried his best to calm her, much to the chagrin of his arresting officer who promptly took his sleek, heavy black baton from his belt; bringing it down hard on Remy's head.  
  
"Shut the fuck up, you dumb hick!" He got off Remy's back then, and with the help of the officer to his immediate right, they both picked the now semi-conscious Cajun up from the ground and proceeded to drag him from the bar.  
  
"What's going on?! Let me go!" Ororo continued to scream and protest as the police men at her sides followed the others lead towards the exit.  
  
"I'm sorry Ma'am but we're gonna have to take you in for questionin' for associatin' with a murder suspect." By now they where outside in the wild night and bundling her into a squad car whilst Remy was already being driven off in the one that had been parked in front. Ororo had had dealings with the police before, but never had she been as petrified as she was at this moment as the car pulled out and headed off down the rain lashed street.  
  
* * *  
  
Logan had got around the corner just a fraction of a second too late to stop them but soon enough to see the shock of white that was Ororo's hair in the back of the police car. Just after she'd left his apartment, he'd decided to follow her. Maybe it was the private detective in him, his naturally distrusting nature or maybe just the fact that he was crazy about her and felt an overtly protective instinct as a result, he didn't know. All he did know was that he felt compelled to go after her when she'd left, see what this Cajun bastard had to say for himself and why he wanted to talk to her. The last thing he'd expected was to see this...  
  
"ORORO!" He shouted after her, his hands cupped around his mouth in an attempt to amplify the sound but it was no use; the racket of the storm that was growing heavier by the second, drowned him out. "ORORO!" he cried again regardless. "Fuck it!" Ripping his hat from his head in his impotent rage, Logan threw it into the gutter as he walked back and forth aimlessly, before plonking himself down on the edge of the pavement. He ran his hands through his hair, that now looked fairly long, the thick toughs that usually stood stubbornly on edge hanging limply thanks to the weight of the rain. Pushing them back and taking in a deep breath, Logan tried to gather his mind into some kind of rational order; it wouldn't do Ororo much good if he lost the plot---this was going to be a real test for him, he couldn't afford to lose his nerve.  
  
"O.K. Logan, get it together." He commanded himself as he stood up from the ground, snatching up his misshapen hat as he went. Rubbing his hand over his whiskers he tried to think of where they might have taken her. It couldn't be the local station because this clearly had something to do with Scott so he'd want to see her personally, which meant...she was being taken to his headquarters in central Manhattan. Logan ran as fast as he could back round the block to his apartment to get his car.  
  
* * *  
  
Ororo had been here before, last year there had been a fundraiser for the building of a new station in Harlem and she'd sung at it. She'd hated doing it, everyone at the event was so patronising, so smarmy, so...goddamn pleased with themselves. But she'd done it because Forge had asked her to and it had given him the perfect opportunity to introduce himself to the New York elite, schmooze with the big guns, get close to Warren Worthington the Third to be more precise...She was in Scott's office at the moment and from the second she'd been brought hear, Ororo knew that this was no ordinary arrest, but her own incarceration was not what was irking her at this point in time. She wanted to know what had become of Remy, frantically hoping that he had not done what she thought he had. Remy was many things but a murder? No, there was just no way he could have done something like that. But then again, what was he trying to tell her about that louse, Victor Creed? Surely...  
  
"Ms. Munroe, I trust it wasn't too much of an ordeal for you?" Scott Summers strode into the office, full uniform on, perfect to the letter, cap tucked under his arm. He looked like a fucking drill sergeant; not a single strand of mousey brown hair out of place. Ororo's icy blues traced his path with unwavering intensity, somehow hoping that the pure vitriol of the stare would burn its way into his very soul. But the Chief seemed unaffected, taking his seat on the opposite side of the desk, placing his cap so that it sat 'just so' beside his ledger. For some reason, that little detail annoyed Ororo most of all.  
  
"Where the hell is Remy, Scott? What have you done with him?" She asked, with a calm demeanour that was somehow ten times more menacing than if she'd have launched into a scathing attack  
  
"Heeee's---in for questioning." Quick save but not quite quick enough.  
  
"Cut the bull shit Scott, what has he done---we know each other, there's no need to be coy." Ororo shifted her legs, crossing one over the other, distracting Scott for just a millisecond. "The arresting officer said he was taking him in for murder. Is that true?"  
  
Better take the sympathetic route. "I'm sorry Ororo, but yes. We suspect that Le Beau was responsible for killing an associate of your husband's, one Mr. Victor Creed, earlier this evening."  
  
Ororo pursed her lips, the beginning of tears collecting in the corners of her pretty eyes that were now swamped with sadness. She began to nod absently, like she'd finally conceded to herself that yes, Remy had crossed that line and although it was that piece of scum Creed that had been on the receiving end she couldn't help but weep for her former love. She wept tears of sadness for the Remy that she had known; the Remy that was probably lost forever. Scott sensed his opening, just like the pro that he was, he could see the angle he had to play that would get her to carry out the plan that he had worked out. A plan that had come to him the moment he had been informed that Remy Le Beau was not alone, but that Ororo Munroe was with him; when Scott had received that news he'd felt like all his Christmases had come at once. Of course, he'd already heard that Ororo had left him two days ago and it hadn't taken that long for the news to filter through to him who she'd left him for. Jimmy fucking Logan of all people! How he detested that little man, but how his own father had respected him...he'd never forgive Charles for that, never. But these things didn't matter, for Scott had realised a way in which he could use these most unexpected of circumstances to his advantage and that was what was most important right now.  
  
"Look, Ororo," He leant his elbows forwards on the desk, bringing his hands together like an understanding priest. "I'm sure the last thing you want is for Remy to serve time---or worse. And I'm not going to pretend like you don't know the---awkward situation that Warren and I have been put in." She cocked an unimpressed eyebrow at him, he ignored it. "There is a way that we can all get out of this---Remy too."  
  
"Oh, is there really." Now she sounded unimpressed too.  
  
"Yes." Scott replied with a flat irritation. "But only if you do as I say."  
  
-TBC- 


	12. Chapter12

Disclaimer: Don't own, Marvel does, so don't sue.  
  
Thank-you to all my reviewers, especially Amanda. I admit, there was a bit of guess work going on there!!  
  
Chapter.12.  
  
"I've been here fer nearly an hour you prick! Jus' tell me where she is!" At this point Logan had the young officer at the reception desk by the collar of his uniform, pulling him so he was leant across the polished length of mahogany, bringing the boy's face down to meet his.  
  
"I---I can only tell you again sir; you will have to wait until Chief Summers has finished talking with her." He said as calm as he could, though his voice was shaky with obvious fear. The rookie was still perturbed from his first encounter with Logan, when he'd stormed into the station and grabbed the first policeman he'd come across and demanded to know where Ororo Munroe was and why she'd been arrested. Then, when that officer had told him to ask the desk clerk, he'd strode over, literally jumped over the fickle barrier that separated them and gotten hold of him by the windpipe, slamming him against the wall. It was a good job that Detective Henry McCoy had come along at that point because the eighteen year old had thought he was a goner.  
  
"Please sir, I'll have to ask you---."  
  
"Come on Jimmy, what have I told you already?" Detective McCoy shouted over as jovially as possible as he came into the reception area, just in the nick of time once again. He made his way over to the pair, throwing the over loaded file he was holding down onto the desk and forcibly prying his old friends fingers from Officer Jones shirt. "Will you please give it a rest?" After Logan had eventually let go, Henry or Hank as everyone called him, gave his ex-partner a friendly slap on the back, "Haven't changed a bit have you my friend?"  
  
Logan coughed as the wind was practically knocked out of him by Hank's 'friendly gesture', the big lummox didn't know his own strength at times; the guy had hands like shovels. "Cut the crap Hank and tell me what you've found out." He said huskily as he cleared his throat.  
  
Hank scratched his head, ruffling his cropped, immaculately combed mousey coloured hair and looked around like he'd been put in an impossibly awkward position, reaching over to pick up the file he'd just placed on the desk. "This is difficult Logan; you know that technically you're not even supposed to be in this station."  
  
"Not unless it's the other side of a cell door, right?"  
  
Hank gave a nervous yet richly toned laugh, "Look, you're an old friend--- all I can give you is that she was brought in with Remy Le Beau."  
  
Logan scowled, "On what charge?"  
  
"As far as I can tell Ms. Munroe has yet to be charged with anything." He said hopefully, maybe that would appease him a little bit at least.  
  
"And Le Beau?"  
  
"Logan, you know I can't share that information with---."  
  
"And Le Beau?" He growled, determined to have his answer.  
  
Hank took his glasses off, pinching the skin at the bridge of his nose as he sighed with resignation. He'd known Logan long enough to realise that the stubborn little bastard wouldn't give up until he told him. "Fine Logan, have it your way," he replaced his glasses and gave a small shake of his head, "You do realise I'm putting my neck on the line telling you this?" No reaction; he just continued to stare up at him with his customary steely gaze. "Remington Le Beau has been arrested for murder."  
  
"Who?" Logan didn't sound in the least bit surprised.  
  
"Oh come on Logan! Do you really need to know that?"  
  
"Who?" He persisted.  
  
"Creed," Hank said quietly, annoyed that he'd been backed into a corner; act professionally or be loyal to a good friend. "We have strong reason to believe that he was responsible for the fatal shooting of Victor Creed earlier tonight."  
  
* * *  
  
"Do you understand what I'm asking you to do?" Scott lent forwards on his desk, hands clasped together with an air of subtle authority.  
  
"I'm not an imbecile Scott." Ororo replied flatly. "But do you really believe that a man as shrewd as Magnus will be so easily deceived?"  
  
"You're the master of deception Ms. Munroe---you tell me."  
  
Ororo narrowed her eyes at Summers, resisting the sudden urge to belt him around his smug face. It was just so infuriating to realise that you couldn't run from your past forever. "So want me to go to Lensherr under the guise that I want my husband killed?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And then to find and destroy the 'Tufano' documents?"  
  
"It's as simple as that Ororo. The only way you'll breach his defences is if you're invited in. Even for an ex-thief as apt as you, it's the only way to gain safe entry. Once in, you can find a way to look for the loot." He gave her a knowing sideways grin, "I'm sure a crook as experienced as you can find a way to get them."  
  
"Making sure you keep a distance between you, him...and Warren---through using me to do your dirty work." Ororo stated before scowling at him for his previous statement, but she knew he only spoke the truth. All the years of 'going straight' had not dulled the fact that in her heart she was a thief. It ran in the blood, just like it did for Remy. They were very similar in that respect, that's why they'd become so close in the first place, they'd grown up on it and there was no escaping that. "And if I refuse your...kind offer?" She questioned sarcastically.  
  
Scott straightened his back; becoming stern, his face a deadly serious mask. "Then I'll make sure Remy Le Beau receives the harshest punishment available for his crime---and you know what that means."  
  
"You really have the power to do that?" Ororo was beyond sceptical, but then again some of the things she knew these men could get away with, it was shocking. Maybe the Chief really did have Remy's life in his hands. If she refused to collude in his subterfuge would Remy pay the ultimate price for her reluctance? "How to you intend to clear Remy's name if I go through with this?"  
  
"Leave that to me---you just worry about what you're doing and everything will be fine." Ororo sincerely doubted that...she doubted it very much, though she agreed to the plan anyway with the merest nod of her head. But even as she gave her consent, she knew this could only end in tears, most likely her own...  
  
* * *  
  
"So...we're agreed?" Forge was tense, it was apparent in his stance: his fists subconsciously clenched at his sides, the overall look of his posture was as rigid as a plank of wood.  
  
Cain Marco stood at the other side of the table from him at the back of the gambling den that was the heart of his Brooklyn operation. The impossibly large man smirked at the slimmer one that on any other day would have been his most fierce adversary, but since his call just over a day ago, they'd suddenly become mutually indispensable. Forge wanted revenge; Marco wanted a formidable foe and rival out of the way. The arrangement was of equal benefit to both, so why would Cain bother to refuse? Absently straightening the lapels of his specially made pin-striped suite (he needed almost three times the amount of material than most of the tailor's patrons and only a few would be so generous. The few that knew crossing Cain Marco would cost them dearly that was.) "You propose an all-out attack on Lensherr's compound in Westchester?" His baritone tones rumbled ominously in the confined space from which the idle chatter of the illegal gamblers could be heard from the next room, along with the infuriating muffled clatter of drinking glasses and random laughter.  
  
"Yes." Forge was deadly serious.  
  
Marco couldn't suppress a minor chuckle in his cautious disbelief "I know you were gunnin' for him the other night," he shrugged his broad shoulders as he referred to the impromptu meeting, "But wantin' to ice the guy completely? That's pretty strong." Cain's thuggish face bore a slightly sceptical yet thoughtful look as he took a seat at the shoddy table.  
  
"Just as strong as rubbing out an active police chief?" Forge suddenly gained some balls through his nervous apprehension; relishing the dark look Cain gave him in return for his out spoken comment. It wasn't official that Marco was responsible for Charles Xavier's death, but all avenues pointed that way.  
  
"Whatever---I'll help you, but only because gettin' that Polack fuck outta my hair will make life a lot easier." Cain grabbed at the cigar that sat on the table, ready and waiting to be lit. Popping the smoke in his mouth, he brought the lighter that had nestled at its side to the waiting tip. But before he lit it, he flicked his dark eyes up to Forge, eyeing him with a subtle concern. "I don't wanna start a mob war here, ya know?" He took the lighter away from his cigar, putting it back onto the marked pine table for a moment whilst the task of getting the stogie lit was temporarily forgotten. "This ain't gonna stir up trouble with the Cassidy's or Mancini's is it?"  
  
Forge allowed himself to laugh briefly, letting a little cockiness show over the stunted rage that was all but consuming him. "Cain, they'll be grateful, believe me. Getting 'Magnus' Lensherr out of the picture will be best for all concerned." He felt confident that Marco believed him but that was because he believed it too. Once he'd gotten Erik out of the way, his path to power was that much clearer. True, it wasn't anywhere near the type of power he had been hoping for but at this point, any sort would do. If he couldn't sit with the 'great and the good', he decided, then he would push for more power in the underworld. Not the place he had expected to be at this point but he was happy to make be. Besides, from this more dubious position he could make those that had crossed him pay much more...severely. But the best thing about all this, he thought to himself in one of his darkest moments, was that he could make that bitch pay. Oh yes, Ororo Munroe would rue the day she turned her back on him and that little sneak, Logan, they both would. But Erik was first on the agenda and after tonight, Forge was most certain that he'd set an example that would terrify generations to come and consolidate his position.  
  
* * *  
  
"Wait here ma'am." 'Shortie' Malone let his grip on his Tommy loosen as he allowed himself one more liberal look at this most unexpected late caller. Pushing his grey Trilby back on his balding head, he gave a low whistle of appreciation before turning on his heel and sauntering casually down the hallway from the checked-floor reception area to his 'boss's' evening parlour.  
  
Ororo bore the disgusting little man's sickeningly libidinous looks with an utter indifference. But it was more a coldness that was allowing her to not get too panicked about what she was doing here. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other; feeling a mild concern at the hard coldness that pressed on the inside of her left thigh. Shifting again as she remembered exactly what was securely strapped into the top of her stocking; the small black revolver that Scott had provided her with was alarmingly heavy for such a tiny firearm. Like a solid piece of lead. Having never had cause to use one before, it had been the quickest crash-course in gun handling ever that she had received before being dispatched with five, ten-strong armed units that were currently dotted about the grounds of the compound. Ororo had been surprised, very surprised indeed to find that Scott was among them, over seeing the entire operation; he didn't want to take any chances that this whole get-up might go wrong, so he'd wanted to be on hand to make sure that it didn't.  
  
Ororo clutched subconsciously at her small shell-shaped black leather purse, and she could feel the clamminess of her fingers under her white gloves. The storm was as wild as ever outside and the old house echoed and creaked with its indelible force. No doubt its tumultuous hostility would cover any police movements from Lensherr's ground guard's shrewd ears.  
  
"Ma'am?"  
  
Ororo looked up from her daydream state, composure smoothing her face like a true pro. The little balding man was back, but with a much more insidious look this time round. She still picked it up non-the-less; not showing a jot that it bothered her. In a most uncouth gesture, the man jerked his head in the direction he wished her to follow him and simply set off on it.  
  
Fighting to control the jitters that had suddenly taken hold of her stomach, Ororo set off after him with a cool-as-you-like stride. Clip-clop- clip-clop-clip-clop...the rhythm of her heels filled her ears, sounding for all the world like the awful beat of the executioners drum as one was led to the lethal embrace of Madam Guillotine.  
  
* * *  
  
"I still say this looks suspect, father." Pietro persisted in voicing his misgivings, despite Magnus's utter distain for any opinion his son might hold; sensible or otherwise.  
  
He waved a large, weathered hand in the white haired young man's general direction, creasing his brow in almost comic dismissal. "Pietro, Pietro, Pietro," Magnus laughed richly yet somehow derogatorily. "What possible 'threat' could the girl impose?"  
  
Exasperated, Pietro, whose gaunt, deathly pale face made him look as if he'd had no sleep for a month, turned to his twin sister for support. Wanda sat in the far corner of the parlour, looking impassive and dark with her ebony hair falling about her face in large, buoyant curls and the glittering fullness of bloodied scarlet lips. She appeared to be considering her choice for a moment, which side to take, until she simply held her left hand out nonchalantly, her elbow resting on the knee of her crossed leg.  
  
"Pietro...I don't know---like father said---what threat could she be?" She spied Magnus's slight smile of satisfaction in the corner of her eye, though it didn't particularly please her. In fact, she felt like she'd let her brother down---again. "After all, why would Forge send her now? To do what exactly?"  
  
Pietro dropped his gaze from her, trying to conceal the hurt and bitter disappointment as best he could. Sucking in a frustrated breath, he gave a minor shake of his head, before lifting his wounded eyes back up to face his father, who'd now lit up a filterless cigarette and was puffing on it disinterestedly. "She's a thief for Christ's sake! Doesn't it strike you as a little bit odd that she would want to see you?!"  
  
Pietro's words finally struck some kind of cord with Magnus as he held the thin white stick paused, just before his waiting mouth, with its small creases at the corners, like well worn leather. But just as quickly the tip came to his lips and he took a large drag and any doubts drifted away with the blue tinged exhale of smoke mere seconds later. He wanted to see what it was Ororo Munroe wanted before he took any notice of his son's suspicions. That's just how much Erik Lensherr thought of his boy--- although the devil be damned why; Wanda could never fathom it, to be truthful, neither could Magnus himself. It was just one of those father and son anomalies.  
  
Just then there was a faint rapping at the double pine doors. "Come in." Magnus called over, glancing sideways at their pale, shiny finish from his seat next to the full-sized pool table, which hadn't been graced with a game since Pietro and Wanda were children. The doors swung open just as an almighty crack of lightening ripped through the sky, turning it, and the Lensherr parlour, electric blue. In walked Ororo Munroe as that stroke of natural electricity lit up the vicinity, much more than the dozen small lamps that dotted the spacious room. She sashayed into the parlour, confident as you like; it was her stage persona to a certain degree. The usually shrewd and cynical Lensherr was taken with it immediately. Caught off guard by the swaying hips and oozing dignity of the unnaturally tall woman; he stood to greet her arrival.  
  
"Ms. Munroe," He took her extended hand as she came close, shaking it in a genteel manner, not taking note of its vaguely moist feel. "...and what brings you into our company?"  
  
Ororo ignored the ice cold layer of sweat that clung to her back, internally chastising herself for feeling nervous. She was a player, always had been and it wasn't all that long ago that she had men like Lensherr eating out of the palm of her hand. She could do his, she knew she could. It was just a matter of putting the old cap on... "Mr. Lensherr---it's a pleasure to meet you."  
  
"Please---sit." Magnus said jovially as he sat back down himself, gesturing with a sweep of his left hand to a vacant chair. Ororo smiled politely, offering her thanks as she sat tentatively on the edge of a well stuffed chair. Her clear blue eyes flickered over to take in the other occupants of the room; Wanda, enveloped in the shadows, looking quite sullen and Pietro, now seated upright on the green velvet chaise longue, his long, skinny legs crossed somewhat awkwardly over one another; the charcoal grey pinstriped suit he was sporting practically hanging from his emaciated body. Neither twin looked in the least bit impressed by her presence; they looked positively hostile in fact. But, the consummate professional, she didn't let them faze her at all; sitting more confidently in her chair and giving Magnus a ghost of a sultry smile, being careful not over doing it too much though. The time had come for deciding how to play this; did she go for steely wronged wife out for revenge at all costs or weepy, feeble woman, coaxing Lensherr into suggesting the solution to her 'dilemma'? The latter; degrading but practical, the former; easier and perhaps more convincing. No need for the crocodile tears then.  
  
Magnus picked up the smooth, silver cigarette case from the small, light- veiled lacquer table by his seat, offering one to his guest but she declined with a small smile and shake of the head. "So---what can I do for you Ms. Munroe?" He persisted, rephrasing his question into a more direct point at issue.  
  
"Ororo, please."  
  
"Ororo." He corrected himself, rolling the sound off his tongue with a dubious pleasure; a wine taster sampling a fine claret. At the same time taking careful note of her second deflection.  
  
"I've come to ask you a great favour." Ororo said seriously, trying to ignore the cold lump positioned between her legs as she sat respectably, hands folded over each other on her knee. Remembering she still hand her gloves on, she set her shell purse down by her side, gently pulling off each silky, white casing, finger by finger.  
  
"Go ahead." Magnus said as he played with the tip of his nearly exhausted smoke, greatly intrigued as to the nature of Munroe's request. Watching intently, the subtle disrobing of her slim, coffee hands.  
  
Ororo sat stoic at first, before letting her back relax a little as she pulled in a steadying breath through her nose as inaudibly as she could, never letting the slightly cold smile drop from her lips. Still with her discarded gloves clasped in her right hand, dropping down like a pair of limp, dead lilies, she asked right out, "I want Forge...taken care of."  
  
All three Lensherr's piqued at hearing Ororo's rather---delicately put entreaty, though the change in their body language was minute but stifled swiftly. Magnus had taught his children well. Wanda was the first to react, lifting up from her chair quickly and emerging from the shadowy corner that she'd interned herself in to stand at her father's side. "And why, Ms. Munroe, would you want us to do that?"  
  
Ororo shifted her steely, blue gaze from its fixed position on Magnus to his scarlet clad daughter, with little change in its definition. She didn't rush her reply though, leaving it a moment or two longer, just long enough to make Wanda feel uncomfortable at having asked. "I fear my husband has got himself into a situation that he can no longer handle and it has put my life at risk already. I'm not prepared to wait around for the next assassin, Miss. Lensherr. I think it better that I cut my losses now." From Wanda, to Magnus, to Pietro, blue orbs traced a slow path to check for a reaction, a response, a trace of doubt.  
  
"And that's the only reason?" Pietro asked suspiciously, his hollow eyes narrowing a tad, set deep in their dark caves.  
  
Ororo opened her mouth to speak but paused a moment instead. As the edges of her lips curved up into an uneasy, dark smile, "No. That is not the only reason."  
  
"So, what else?" Wanda asked impatiently, shifting the angle of her hips, shifting her weight from one leg to the other as she stood at her father's elbow.  
  
"He's been having an affair...with an actress." It made Ororo feel that slight spark of pure anger and disgust to think of it, but was an absolute gem of an excuse. At least she needn't lie about that. As they say, all the best lies are peppered with a smattering of truth.  
  
Wanda couldn't suppress a small smirk at Ororo's misfortune, but Ororo was thankful for that, it meant she had ceased to question her authenticity. Magnus also appeared to have taken Ororo at face value, it was the son whom remained uneasy, she could see it in his sharp, angular face. So when she spoke next, she addresses her words towards him more than the other two. "It's...embarrassing to say the least, I'll admit that." She was completely earnest on that front. "Even more so, given that he'd put a private investigator on my tail, having the audacity to suspect me of adultery." A small bitter laugh came from nowhere, but it was more to herself as she thought about his hypocrisy. Oh how she hated him. "I want him out of the way Mr. Lensherr---and I am prepared to pay handsomely for the privilege."  
  
Magnus lent his elbow on the ample arm of the large embroidered chair; placing his index finger over his mouth as his other digits clasped around his noble chin and his thumb finding purchase supporting the underside of it. He thought for a moment; glacial blue eyes, with their heavy hoods and life weary under-rings holding a look of far off contemplation. Finally, he deigned to speak, moving the index finger over to the side of his mouth, allowing him to do so. "May I ask, what made you come to me for help?"  
  
Ororo smiled, giving her the spilt second she needed to come up with an appropriate untruth. "I know you've never really cared for Forge, and his allegiances with most of the other 'families' in the city made it difficult to ask anybody else."  
  
"I see." He seemed to believe her.  
  
"I know this is a drastic step---I've thought about nothing else since this whole torrid business starte---."  
  
"What 'torrid business' Ms. Munroe?" Pietro cut in quickly.  
  
"Well---my husband's affair and whatever it is he's got himself caught up in, what else?" She made a great effort to sound wounded. #You'll have to be swifter than that to catch me off my guard child!# She thought smugly, though she admired his effort to catch her out. Pietro raised a snowy, sceptical eyebrow at her, but didn't pursue the matter further. All three Lensherr's seemed, to her at least, pretty much satisfied that she knew nothing of the more serious nature of the situation.  
  
"Alright Ororo, we will see to your request, but a fee is quite unnecessary." Ororo opened her mouth in order to protest but Lensherr stopped her by raising his hand, quickly adding, "To be truthful, my dear, it will be of great benefit to me personally to have your husband out of the way." Ororo was relieved for a second, that was until he uttered his next sentence. "I will simply hold you to a favour, at some point in the future." He shifted in his seat, taking up his cigarette case from the table. "Your expertise should come in handy."  
  
Was there nobody who wasn't aware of her past as a professional thief? She began to see Remy's petty attempts at blackmail as a trifling point, as everybody that knew Forge already appeared to be privy to that particular information. "Fine." She agreed solemnly. "That is a fair bargain." For the first time on this turbulent night, Ororo had thought of what would become of her once this whole 'sting' was over; Magnus wouldn't take too kindly to her double-crossing ways. This was the one thing, through her unthinking selflessness that she hadn't considered. What would become of her when Lensherr realised what she'd done? It was then that she became aware of the full extent of Chief Summers plan.  
  
"Are you alright?" Magnus sounded genuinely concerned.  
  
Ororo, realising she must have been wearing her troubled soul on her sleeve, quickly masked the expression, and came up with a swift excuse for it. "Yes, yes, I'm absolutely fine---it's just this whole situation---it's so trying." Maybe a little show of 'weakness' wouldn't hurt her cause.  
  
"I understand."  
  
"Would you mind if I went to the bathroom to freshen up?" She gave him a weary yet endearing look.  
  
"Not at all my dear." He said, most accommodatingly. "The rest room is up the stairs, three doors on the left."  
  
"Thank-you." Ororo stood from her chair, noticing the twins exchanging looks as she placed her gloves on the arm of the chair as retrieved her shell purse from the diamond patterned carpet. "Excuse me." She gave a courteous nod to Magnus and a vaguely appreciative glance to Wanda and Pietro, taking her leave of the room quickly.  
  
The three who remained stayed silent for a while; Wanda moving over to take a seat on the chaise longue next to her brother. Each wondering who would be the first to voice their opinion.  
  
Wanda was the first. "Do you trust her father?"  
  
"For now." Was his flatly toned reply. He flipped open the silver case and took out a slim, white stick.  
  
"Well I think you're insane." Pietro responded curtly as he stood from the chaise longue, thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets.  
  
"Do be quiet boy!" Magnus chastised patronisingly. But he hated to admit that his generally suspicious nature made him inclined to agree with his son. No matter how much that chagrined him. After a while, in which Pietro lit a cigarette and sucked on it furiously whilst pacing back and forth impatiently, he said, "Wanda---be a dear and go see if Ms. Munroe is O.K." He wouldn't concede outright defeat---not even if his life depended on it.  
  
"Alright father." Wanda stood, straightening out her mid shin length, body hugging silk dress and quickly making her way to the door. Magnus watched her go, settling back into the embroidered chair, taking up the long neglected gin and tonic that had nestled close to the silver cigarette case. He was sure that if Ororo Munroe had a game, he would soon find it out.  
  
*  
  
Rushing down the hallway, Ororo scrambled to open the gold clasp of her shell purse, pulling out a neatly folded scrap of paper. She glanced at the scribbled lay-out of the ground floor of the Lensherr compound. The office was just ahead, she could see the door right now. Coming up to it quickly, she used those expertise, so much talked about tonight, to 'jimmy' open the door. Safe in the knowledge that any noise she made would be hidden by the continuing storm. Once inside, it took her no time to locate where the papers where stashed. She rushed round to his desk and quickly solved the puzzle of the top draw; the lock was unbelievably feeble. (She guessed he didn't expect anyone to even attempt to rob him at his strong hold, hence the lack of security around his prized possession.) The lightening was her guiding light in the task as she rifled through some meaningless papers and found the ones she was looking for at the bottom of the pile. It was a large brown envelope and it was addressed to the New York Times newspaper. So, Lensherr had decided that if traditional methods of justice did not work (as much as a career criminal can complain for justice), a national expose would suffice in its place. A smart move on his part, Ororo thought. For Lensherr this was about revenge; pure and simple. He could have been as sly as Forge had attempted to be, he could get Warren over a barrel with this, but he'd opted for an entirely different route. He wanted to see the 'Great Worthington Family' fall. It was obvious that he had expected his own children to be where Warren was right now, and Worthington the Second had robbed him of that. No matter how much Ororo was currently tempted to leave the document where it lay, she knew Remy's life rested on it. But there was a nagging doubt in her mind over whether Scott would keep his promise.  
  
Immediately shutting out such unsettling thoughts, Ororo grabbed the papers and a grey, metal bin that was at the foot of the large, leather chair and set it on the desk. Quickly going over to the lead-lined window at her back she pushed down on the handle-like catch, opening it outwards just enough, but not so that the driving rain could pile in. Returning to the desk, she retrieved her purse and snapped the golden clasp open, taking out a small, black cased lighter. Holding the weighty brown envelope over the bin she put the tip of the lighter to its hanging corner. Gulping down hard, Ororo laid her thumb on the two circular rivets that struck against the flint inside. She toyed for a moment with the idea of striking them back, pressing her long thumb on them until she felt the reassuring pressure of the digging into her flesh. Closing her sapphire eyes, Ororo was about to pull her digit back---  
  
"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Her lids flipped up to see Wanda leaning on the door frame, her arms held out in front of her, coming to a point wherein she clasped a .45 with both hands, aimed directly at Ororo. "My father wouldn't be pleased---he wouldn't be pleased at all."  
  
-To Be Concluded-  
  
(Conclusion and epilogue will come up soon.) 


	13. Chapter13

Disclaimer: Same as before.  
  
Warning: Character death.  
  
Chapter.13.  
  
From where Logan sat, in his small, black Ford, parked just behind one of the large, old Oaks that lined Graymalkin Road, he could see two covert teams around the edges of the Lensherr compound. Following them here without being spotted had been doddle, after all, it was his job. He'd hung back for almost half an hour now, watching from the rain streaked window of his car; the inactivity of the police officers being reassuring at least. But it was time to act; all he had to do was slip past the officers and then make sure that Lensherr's guards saw him. Once they had, their was no way that Summers errand boys could stop him from entering the house without blowing their cover.  
  
Flipping open his glove box, Logan delved his hand into the disorder inside, pulling out a middle sized revolver and placing it in his shoulder- holster, fixed onto his left side. As he reached over to put it in he winced a little, his ribs on the right side still being a little tender from the beating he'd received nearly two days ago. Ignoring it, he went back into the glove box and retrieved a second, much smaller gun. This time, he reached down to his ankle, and pushed it into the small, leather pocket of his ankle-holster. He was ready and set. With no further delay, he got out of his car, and made his way down to the broad, wet windswept street to the plush mansion four hundred yards away.  
  
* * *  
  
Scott had the ideal vantage point from the attic of the vacant Boat House on the hill at the back of the Lensherr Mansion. From its high position, he could see all activity in the back rooms of the plush house, but unfortunately, not the office. But he was so elevated that he could even see the front gate from over the tops of the gothic-style turrets on the slate panelled roof, the driveway was so long. Although the row of neat Conifers that lined the gravelled pathway were still a slight obstruction to his view.  
  
He walked away from the window for a moment into the darkness of the empty room, his radio that kept him in touch with all his units at all times, gripped firmly in his right hand. Raising that arm up, he wiped away the thin layer of sweat from his brow with the back of his thick, starched cuff, the brass button on it, detailed with the New York State insignia, scratching lightly across the skin. So far, everything was going to plan, his teams that had been posted to watch the interaction in the main parlour had reported that everything had gone well; Magnus and the twins had taken her fabrication at face value. Although he was a little concerned when it was reported to him that Wanda had left the room shortly after Ororo.  
  
Scott was waiting for word on that situation right now as his first team tried to get into an appropriate position to survey the office. But it was difficult for them to do so without being seen by a small gaggle of goons smoking and chatting amongst them selves, sheltering under the eaves at that corner of the house. He brought the radio up to his mouth, ready to inquire of any change, but then stopped short of pressing the small, black button on the side. A minute or so longer he'd give them, and then he'd try.  
  
Going back over to the window, Scott lent on the sill, keeping most of his body out of sight, peeking round just enough to see the house. In a glint of light he saw...a dark figure in the drive? No, he must have been mistaken. The strange light of the storm must have been playing tricks with his eyes. Or it must have been one of Lensherr's men. As another crack of lightening lit up the proceedings, it revealed that there was no-one in the drive or by the ten foot Conifers that lined it. He must have been seeing things he reassured himself...just a trick of the light.  
  
* * *  
  
Wanda pressed her finger on the trigger a little tighter, pushing off the door frame to stand straight, and then she took a few steps, lingering and slow, into the room. Ororo still held tightly to the envelope and the lighter, but became increasingly aware of the cold lump between her legs, trying to think of a way to get to it.  
  
"Put it down---now." She came further into the room but Ororo did nothing as she stared down the barrel end of the gun. Its dark, empty hole starring at her like a black, unblinking eye. A million options ran trough her mind; it wasn't the first time she'd been caught in the act, so she wasn't at a complete loss at how to handle this.  
  
Placing the lighter and the envelope onto the desk, Ororo laid her hands casually by her sides. She eyed Wanda through the darkness with a subtle confidence; it wasn't the first time she'd had a gun pointed at her in this kind of intimate situation either. "Well this is tricky." She intoned seriously, yet in the coldly callous manner of someone who'd just been caught in the act with another woman's husband. Protractedly raising a perfectly curved, platinum eyebrow at Wanda, her hand continued to creep round to the front of her black dress, so slowly that even the scarlet-clad girl's unflinching attention didn't catch it.  
  
"I knew you were here for Forge---I could see you were lying."  
  
Ororo raised her light coloured eyebrow even higher, mockingly so. "You did not see fit to question me in front of your father, girl." She cocked her head to the side, an indeterminately arrogant yet sincere look on her face. The use of the term 'girl', instantly placing her beneath Ororo, making Wanda question her own authority. "What do you intend to do now?"  
  
Wanda held the .45 steady, readjusting her grip ever-so-slightly to make it firmer. "I knew you were a scheming little bitch the moment I set eyes on you." The corners of her mouth twitched into a knowing smirk. "What woman doesn't want her husband killed for selfish reasons?"  
  
Ororo was about to retort when she stopped to consider Wanda's words. Lensherr's daughter was intuitive enough to realise that Ororo really did hold a grudge against Forge, despite the fact that in all reason, it looked as if she were working for him. She was obviously a smart young girl. Although, Ororo didn't want Forge dead---out of the way would do. Prison perhaps? But crucially, she'd made no link between her and Scott Summers, which was a blessing, of sorts.  
  
Her hand continued to creep down slowly, until she made a quick movement, dipping it underneath her dress and quickly grasping the heavy revolver. Wanda let off a shot; the lethal projectile whizzing past Ororo's left earlobe and smashing the led-lined pane behind her. The storm's sudden insurgence covered the noise of shattering glass. It gave her the time to get the gun from her stockings, fumbling for a second with the hammer before she managed to pull it back and aim it clearly at the eldest twin by two minutes.  
  
"Now what Wanda?" She asked in a slightly breathy, deep tone as she held her gun just as steady. Neither one said anything then, as the storm raged in the background. Each woman holding their ground with equal determination. It appeared the deadlock would be uneasily broken...  
  
* * *  
  
"Hey, you see somethin'?" Carry Falstaff called over to Malone through the wailing wind, cocking his gun up, subconsciously to the ready.  
  
'Shortie' looked out into the blackness, squinting from the gravel and stray leaves that had been whipped into the night air, and from the pounding rain that dripped from the stout rim of his hat . "Nah! I don't see nothin'!" He looked again into the night and from behind a large, rhythmically swaying Conifer he saw a small, stocky figure emerge , making a direct path toward the front door that the two men were guarding.  
  
"Hey! Who the fucks there?" But his words were more or less smothered by a phenomenal clap of thunder. The figure continued on its course, only becoming obvious to the two men when it reached the glow of the intermittently flickering porch light. To 'Shortie' Malone's horror, he recognised the figure immediately. "Detective Logan." He gasped.  
  
"What?" Falstaff asked his fellow guard.  
  
"Urr---urr nothin'." He tripped over his words as Logan came up to them; soaking wet, a vicious scowl on his face, the rain dripping from his lamb- chops pitifully.  
  
"I want t' see Lensherr." He demanded cantankerously.  
  
"Oh really?" Falstaff scoffed. "And what makes you think we'll---."  
  
"Alright, alright---we'll take you in." Malone interrupted hastily, his nervous eyes darting between his comrade and the man he used to know on the force. He understood from Logan's look; if he didn't comply with his request, he'd blow the whistle on him. They'd never really got on when they were on the force together.  
  
"What?!" Falstaff bellowed indignantly, glaring at 'Shortie' with a barely disguised sneer. "We don't even know how the fuck he is! What will Lensherr say?!"  
  
Malone kept his dull, grey eyes on Logan who returned his dark gaze in kind, but he addressed Falstaff as he spoke. "He'll wanna see this guy--- trust me." He could only just contain the growl in his words. Carry glared at his partner for a moment and then shifted his hazel eyes over to the 'visitor'.  
  
"Whatever you say 'Shortie'." Falstaff said; a hint of suspicion in his voice. He ran his up and down Logan's form sceptically, taking in the grey trench coat that had turned a dark charcoal grey from the rain, spying the dark shabby suit underneath through the glint of an opening at the front. "Come here." He ordered darkly, not caring about the look Logan gave him.  
  
Logan stepped forwards towards the lanky, fair headed man before Malone could protest. Reaching forwards, Carry Falstaff plunged his hands under Logan's heavy, wet coat, patting up and down his sides. It didn't take him long to discover the revolver in the shoulder holster. Wrenching it free from its leather pocket, Falstaff held it up, eyeing Logan with a critical yet cocky look, raising his eyebrow at him from beneath his black Trilby, laced with a fashionable stream of white silk. He jerked the gun up and down in his leather gloved hand a couple of times, as if to assess the weight. Without a word, Falstaff slipped the gun into his back pocket, flipping the corner of his long coat back and slotting it in swiftly, never for a moment taking his knowing eyes off Logan; who returned his gaze with a defiant distain.  
  
Malone watched all this with a quiet panic his breath speeding up but being audible to him alone. "Come on." He shouted to Logan, somewhat relieved that Falstaff had 'satisfied' his suspicion.  
  
Logan looked up at the man who had searched him, looking angry at the intrusion but if his searcher had looked for it he'd have seen the hint of victory somewhere in the short man's light eyes. With that lingering look Logan started off into the house.  
  
"You go with him." 'Shortie told the other man. "Take---take him to the Boss. He's in the parlour." Malone was backing off from the porch all the time that he spoke the words.  
  
"Yeah---alright." Falstaff's eyebrows knitted slightly as he watched Malone stumble nervously backwards, out into the storm. But paying his odd behaviour no more attention he looked down at Logan, motioning his head in the direction he wished him to follow; he and the visitor entered the Lensherr compound.  
  
*  
  
'Shortie' Malone waited for the front door to shut firmly before he took off down the driveway, his solid shoes pounding on the lose chips as he ran from the mansion, he ran so fast and so haphazardly that his gun fell from his shoulder but he didn't care. The loss of the weight allowed him to run faster towards the gate, his pace making the rain sting his face viciously, like tiny air gun pellets hitting the exposed flesh. He only got halfway to freedom though before a whistling sound ripped through the sound of the rain and the howling wind and with a muffled spurt, a fountain of deep red exploded from 'Shortie's' large forehead. The rifle bullet centre the centre of his, passing through it neatly and exiting through the back of his skull. The entrance and exit wounds were not particularly large, mere red dots really as the felled man collapsed to the ground like a sack of spuds; arms and legs splayed out awkwardly.  
  
"Nice shot." Cain Marko said to one of his foot soldiers by the name of Conrad Lee.  
  
"Never mind that." Forge chastised tersely as he pushed past the large bulk of his partner in carnage Cain Marko, coming out from behind a Conifer tree. "Let's get this over and done with." He only spared a short thought for the several men they'd already disposed of around the perimeters of the grounds, by their uniforms obviously law men. So he came to the conclusion that he'd made the correct decision to hit Magnus tonight as Scott Summers seemed to have had the same idea.  
  
"Are we gonna do this?" Marko asked, almost too eagerly.  
  
After a moments pause, as he stared at Lensherr's house and thought of all the advantages that that damn Polack would have and he wouldn't, and he felt vindicated in his actions. His thoughts flashed to his wife for a second, and her 'traitorous' actions and it renewed the fire of anger that lulled in the pit of his stomach, never showing itself to the surface world, least of all Cain Marko. He conducted himself with a sly calm. This all appeared be a professional vendetta, but in truth, it was personal--- very personal. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain. The several armed men that Marko and Forge had amassed, assembled behind them, all with guns at the ready, at least thirty of them. Some of them Forge's men, some of them Marko's and the rest being 'Black' Tom Cassidy's men. They all piled in, not expecting too many forces in their way as they plundered through to their prize target; Magnus Lensherr.  
  
*  
  
Crackle *"ALPHA ONE TEAM!"* Crackle. *"OMEGA ONE TEAM, COME IN!"* Crackle. Scott didn't know why he was trying to contact his two perimeter teams---he knew they'd been taken out by Forge and Marko as soon as he saw them and their rag-tag army of men ambled up the driveway. He thought for a moment, stepping back into the dull hollow of the empty room. Running his hand over the bottom half of his chiselled face; over the grimly set line of his mouth and the uncharacteristically stubble-laden square chin, Scott refrained from panic. But his face still held a veneer of concern as he took the hand-set back to his mouth and firmly squeezed the button that made it crackle back into life. * "Gamma Team, Alpha Two Team, Omega Two Team, come in."*  
  
In quick succession, the leaders of all three teams confirmed they were recipients of the communication, with short stout, "Yes sir's".  
  
Scott paused for a moment, taking the hand-set a few more inches from his mouth. Taking in a deep breath, he shook his head slightly as he exhaled slowly, as if to clear it---as if to assure himself that the decision he was about to make was a valid one. He pressed the button once more. * "Listen up boys---part of the original plan is still intact, but---."* Taking the radio away again, Scott's mouth set back into the stern line it had been moments ago, somehow of its own volition. * "Listen"*, he began again, clearing his throat, * "We will not just be taking out the Lensherr gang---the Forge and Marko mobs have just come onto the Lensherr grounds--- they are now also your targets."*  
  
He let the radio fall silent, as with soft brown eyes that glistened with moisture at his briefly pricked conscience, he watched the ever blackening clouds outside. They were so dark in fact that they made the night sky look twice as black as normal; the black of the veil of death that once it descends is all consuming and infinite. And under this abysmal canopy, the most prominent members of New York's gangland were about to meet their maker...at Scott Summer's sole request.  
  
"He'd understand." Scott whispered to himself, eyes shut tight to the storm that ravaged the sky. "...father, you have to understand...you have to...."  
  
* * *  
  
"Do you know how many men my father as employed around here?" Wanda asked the rhetorical question with a hint of incredulous laughter in her voice. "If you killed me, you wouldn't get more than an inch outside the front door before they pumped you full of holes!"  
  
"What difference does it really make Wanda?"  
  
The dark-haired girl's face twitched, creasing with a questioning look, which she attempted to quell immediately. Ororo caught it instantly.  
  
"If I don't shoot you, I'll be taken to your father and he will have me killed anyway, for double-crossing him." Ororo let her tongue run over her painted bottom lip nervously, keeping her blue, wide eyes straight ahead. She could taste the salt of the sweat on that lip and then became conscious of the way her chest was beginning to heave up and down with a steadily increasing pace, her breasts straining against the plunging neckline of her moderately respectable black dress. "So, if I kill you now, it makes no difference as to what happens to me." Ororo waited for Wanda to reply, but she said nothing and revealed nothing. "Does it?" It was more a statement; or at least an insistence for her to speak if it be a direct reply or not.  
  
Wanda smiled, her full blood-red smile, "Well, maybe it would be best for me to simply get this over and done with right---." Ororo squeezed the trigger, and as the bullet shot by Wanda, she watched as the younger woman was just a fraction of a second to late to dodge it completely; the lead bullet just clipping the edge of her left shoulder. But she didn't let out much of a noise as a spray of red burst like a scantly fed fountain from the wound, which in truth was little more than a graze. Wanda clutched at it, still with her gun in hand, stemming the measly flow of vital fluid. Ororo darted from behind the desk, taking up the heavily packed brown envelope, making her way for the door that Wanda had stumbled backwards into, propping herself against the frame. But she figured she'd get past her easily, given her state and the shock she was probably suffering from.  
  
She figured wrong. As Ororo sped past, intending to head straight for the front door, unfortunately, she wasn't fast enough. Wanda mustered enough energy, as her stinging shoulder continued to seep, to pull her gun-bearing hand back and swing it towards Ororo as she passed, catching her smartly on her left temple.  
  
The singer was literally seeing stars as she fell to the ground, her vision completely knocked off sync. Her hands suddenly became weak and her grip on the revolver and the envelope relinquished against her will. A semi blackness came over her, though she didn't for any period black-out, it was like she was floating in the vague place in between.  
  
"You bitch!" Wanda hissed as she ignored the pain in her shoulder, checking just enough to make sure the bullet had passed straight through. Grasping a hefty handful of Ororo's ample white mane, she managed to pull her up onto her knees. Ororo didn't make much of a noise in protest; she was still startled to a degree---that was until she felt Wanda jam the barrel of her gun into the small hollow at the base of her skull. She could almost feel the pressure of Wanda's finger on the trigger. "I'd kill you now you fucking whore." She spat the words like particularly acidic bile. "But I'm sure my father can come up with a much more---excruciating punishment than the meeting of your brain with a bullet." Wanda tugged at Ororo's hair forcing her to her feet, but she didn't give the girl the satisfaction of any small utterance of displeasure or pain. Letting go of the white waterfall, but with the gun still against Ororo's body, it slipped slowly down her back as Wanda bent to pick up the envelope from the ground, not wanting to take the gun away from her for even a second.  
  
Ororo felt the gun slide back up her back as Wanda stood straight until the slightly warmed (from being fired), cylindrical length of metal was once again in the cutch of her skull.  
  
"Move." Wanda ordered quietly yet firmly. And Ororo did. Her scalp still emitting the dull sting from her hair being pulled and the side of her head throbbing from the previous hit. As she was guided back to the parlour, she decided she'd just have to play this one by ear.  
  
The pair walked in a cautious silence down the wide hallway, their dull, thudding footsteps on the central strip of patterned carpet the only real sound coming from either one. Ororo watched door after door go by until they came to the parlour. A bright, almost yellow light spilled out from underneath, and voices could be heard muttering heatedly, above the ever- present rumble. Wanda stopped and by extension Ororo did too; long-nailed fingers closing stronger around the top of her arm whilst the gun was pressed more vehemently. They both listened to the voices and although they couldn't ascertain exactly what was being said, they surmised that there were more voices in that room than the two they had left no more than fifteen minutes ago, twenty minutes at most. Once Wanda had worked out that there were four people in the parlour, three of which she knew, she pushed Ororo forwards again, towards the door. Just as her chest almost touched the pine, Ororo spoke. "What exactly are you going to tell him?" She tried to turn her head, to get a glimpse at her captor, but the gun wouldn't let her.  
  
"Just open the door."  
  
Giving up her attempt to look over her shoulder at Wanda, Ororo did as she was told, clasping the brass handle and pushing the heavy weight of the large door inwards. It was all she could do to stop her eyeballs from falling from her sockets when she clapped them on the mystery owner of the fourth voice.  
  
"Logan!" She attempted to make a rush over to him, her delight at seeing him being overwhelming, but Wanda's fingers clenched tighter to her arm and the gun pressed once more. Ororo felt it hit bone forcibly through skin, the epidermis feeling more fragile than ever, like it could be broken if it were pushed any harder into it.  
  
The momentary flash of tenderness and relief that came to Logan's face on seeing his lover was quickly replaced by an angry grimace at seeing the gun and Wanda's grasping hand. He motioned to go to the two women but was stopped when Lensherr said, "Now, now Mr. Logan---if what you say is true, then you have nothing to worry about." Magnus looked over to his daughter, and in that look some kind of unspoken communication happened between them and Wanda released Ororo's arm, allowing her to rush over to Logan, who embraced her with immense eagerness, like they'd been parted for eons rather than hours. But he primarily kept his attention on Lensherr as he pressed Ororo to him, kissing her at the side of her head through her thick hair, serious eyes fixed on the crime boss he'd come to see.  
  
"What was she doing?" Magnus asked as he turned his attention onto Wanda, Pietro and Carry Falstaff watching everything silently from behind him.  
  
Wanda held up the brown envelope, sort of flapping it in her father's direction as she said, quite proudly, "She was going to burn them---I stopped her just in time."  
  
Manus nodded absently at his daughter as he turned to the embracing couple, who were now both turned to face him, something definitely defiant in their stance. "Well, Ms. Munroe, what do you have to say?"  
  
Ororo stared at him, still insolent to the hilt, despite her slightly too tight clutch around Logan's midriff. But she remained silent as she had no idea what Logan had already said to him. Lensherr shifted his gaze to Logan, walking towards the pair until he was only around thirty inches from them. Clasping his hands behind his back, in an almost erudite manner, he looked from one to the other, before settling on Logan once more. "So, you say Chief Scott Summers put her up to this?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"He was using her to get the papers and to destroy them?"  
  
"Yes." The word was grinded out with a kind of quiet impatience this time.  
  
"And why should I believe you Mr. Logan?!" Magnus turned his back on the pair, stepping away towards a patiently quiet Pietro and Falstaff. With a small motion of his head doorwards, Carry Falstaff got the message and left the room. Nobody watched him go.  
  
"Why the hell would I be lyin'?" Logan shouted angrily. "Do you think she's doin' this for Forge?!"  
  
"I don't know---why don't you tell me?" He snapped as he turned back to face the couple, any hint of good humour gone from his weathered but handsome face.  
  
Logan clutched at her a little tighter, replying with a quiet seriousness, "Do ya think I'd be here---riskin' my neck fer her---if she were still with that son-of-a-bitch?!"  
  
Lensherr thought this over. If what Logan had told him were true, he supposed that it would make a little more sense. But he'd grown so used to being in a state of perpetual distrust with all that he came across; it was difficult to make the switch even when your gut instinct told you to. No, Erik Magnus Lensherr had been a crook for far to long to give in to that old chestnut. "To be quite frank Mr. Logan---I couldn't care less one way or the other as to the circumstances of her betrayal or your arrival--- you're both dead wood as far as I'm concerned." He dawdled over to the open drinks cabinet, next to the large set of full bookcases that ran almost the entire length of the south wall, bursting with old and new volumes cased in brown, green and cadium red covers. Duly pouring out a scotch in a fine cut crystal glass, adding precisely three cubes of ice, Magnus didn't face them when he said, "And as we all know---dead wood is utterly useless."  
  
Before anyone could respond a series of loud dull bangs clattered through the air; everyone stopped to take note but none could be sure of what they'd heard. Was it thunder or gun fire?  
  
"Pietro?" The young man's attention was wrenched from its unseen tenure sharply.  
  
"Yes father?"  
  
"Go and find Dukes for me," he took a leisurely sip of his drink, "and tell him he's got a job---two jobs to be more precise."  
  
"Lensherr?" Logan was astonishingly un-angry as he watched his would-be executioner go back to his chair, his red velvet lounging robe with the beautifully embroidered mauve collar and rope-belt pulled tight around him. "I've got a proposition."  
  
"Oh? Do tell." He almost snickered into his raised glass. Over the years he'd heard every plea in the book---it interested him to see if anyone could come up with anything new!  
  
"You can get rid of me, if takin' someone's life is the only thing that's gonna satisfy ya---but ya don't need to touch 'Ro." Logan tried his best not to look to his right at Ororo, he didn't want to see the look on her face. In fact, he couldn't look at her at all---it would tear him apart. "You've got yer precious fuckin' 'Tufano' crap and ya can go out and ruin Worthington's life, Summers' life and whoever the fuck else ya want to." His voice lowered immeasurably, "...but ya don't need Ororo's---she hasn't done anything."  
  
"On the contrary dear boy!" Lensherr's free hand slapped against the left side of his chest, over the heart, but in a mock gesture of sympathy for his cause, landing there with a richly muffled thump. "The girl's done plenty---isn't that right Ms. Munroe?" He raised his glass to her, as if in toast.  
  
At that moment, Pietro, who had been dawdling in his father's request, rather too engrossed in the latest exchange, only just began to open the parlour's double doors to run the errand when the huge hunks of pine flew swiftly inwards. If it wasn't for extraordinarily quick reflexes, the spindly Pietro may very well have been crushed by Fred 'The Blob' Dukes lumbering form literally falling into the room. A thick clot of dark, almost black blood poured from the large man's gapping mouth, his open, plain grey jacket revealed a white shirt shot full of holes, large poppy- like stains spreading from them; red with black centres. They dotted his chest like so many pin-points on a dot-to-dot puzzle; elaborate and cloistering around the chest area, hence the blood from the mouth. He made a tired 'huff' sound as he fell to the ground, more or less at Pietro's feet, his fat face distorted as it hunched up its ripples against the carpet and the black blood from his still open mouth began to drip. Drip, drip, drip, like an incessantly leaking tap; the dark droplets hit the ground, soaking into the thick pile as soon as their tiny heart beats had been heard.  
  
Ororo, Logan, Wanda, Pietro and even Magnus; they were all stunned into silence at the unexpected sight of the dying man crashing into the room, but the shock didn't have chance to settle as his killers entered also.  
  
"Magnus." Forge said as if he were greeting the man at some dignified social event.  
  
"Forge." Lensherr reciprocated, "I wish I could say it were a pleasure to see you---or you." He added darkly as he shifted his gaze to Cain Marko.  
  
Forge laughed derisively, but Marko remained stoic, eager to get this over and done with as fast as possible, his gun pointed squarely at Lensherr. But that simply wasn't going to happen as Forge turned his attention to his wife and the man in whose arms she was held tightly. Walking over to them, gun now aimed at the pair, he stopped just in front of his wife. Ororo held her head up high, she wasn't about to let this low life make her feel guilty...or scared. He looked at her and then down at Logan; the struggle with which he was retaining control was apparent to all.  
  
"I'm going to take immense delight in this." He stated quietly as he brought the gun up to Ororo's heart against a background of continuing gunfire between his pieced together mob and what remained of Scott Summers' squads, the cries of dying men filling the air. And then everything seemed to happen all at once. First the lights blacked out, the storm finally taking its toll on the house generator, at which point Logan made a grab for the gun that threatened his love. As the two men fell to the floor, in a furious tussle, Pietro drew his gun as Wanda aimed for Cain Marko with hers but they were too late...Marko pulled his automatic rifle, pumping his gangland rival with two rounds in the chest and head before their own bullets took effect.  
  
"FATHER---NO!" Wanda cried out mournfully as she rushed past his assassin, dropping to the floor and cradling the already dead man in her arms; his limp body pressed to her chest as wide blue eyes stared into the abyss of nothingness. Pietro made no move though, perhaps he even felt nothing, but there was a kind of revolt that ran through his body. In all the action and confusion, nobody noticed the Gamma team, lining up at the window of the parlour. Nobody heard the order to open fire. The first thing anybody knew of it was when the windows shattered inwards, in a hail of gunfire...  
  
Pietro jerked like a puppet on particularly erratic strings as the bullets were pumped indiscriminately into his body. After being held upright only by their sheer force, his thin lifeless body dropped to the floor.  
  
In their struggle, Forge had somehow managed to force his way on top of Logan, despite the discrepancy in strength, and was now forcing his gun against the shorter man's head. Logan kept a firm grip on Forge's wrists though, and was resisting him with all his strength until in a flash of inspiration he let go. Instead, he grabbed onto Forge's neck and pushed his head upwards. It wasn't too long before one or two of the stray bullets the officers were still firing off, took affect. Several hit him in the back and he slumped forwards onto Logan with a muffled gurgling sound, still breathing, though it appeared perhaps not for too much longer.  
  
It would have been a 'triumph'; it would have been a tainted 'victory', had it not been for the fact that one of those stray projectiles had been an inch to the left rather than to the right.  
  
"ORORO!" Logan watched helpless, as one of the last rounds to be fired hit Ororo in the back, passing straight through her chest as she had been running over to him to stop Forge's attempt on his life. Pushing Forge off him, Logan quickly got to Ororo, who'd swiftly collapsed into a pile on the floor. Scooping her from the floor, he swiped her white hair from covering her face and in a manner not to dissimilar to Wanda, cradled her to him. Looking down in desperation at her blood-drained face and half closed eyelids, revealing enough of the blue of her eyes to show their fading embers, he pleaded, "'Ro! Come on darlin', speak to me! 'Ro! Please, 'RO!---RO!, please darlin, please...don't do this to me....please..."  
  
As the law enforcement officers piled into the room, the lightening let out its last few blasts of fury and the once howling wind and driving rain calmed to a degree, their lives just...ebbing away...  
  
~The Epilogue~ 


	14. Epilogue

Disclaimer: I don't own the X-Men (or assorted members of 'The Avengers' or 'X-Factor' for that matter!), so don't sue.  
  
I have had such fun writing this story, exploring the potentially darker sides of all the X-characters. It was quite liberating really! What made it more fun is that you all seemed to enjoy it also. A BIG thank-you to each and every one of you. So now, sit back and enjoy...  
  
The Epilogue.  
  
The thick smell of damp concrete in the air was stifling, although it was a relief that the rain had now stopped...to a degree. The thin veil of drizzle still came and went with no rhyme or reason. But when it did, it soaked one to the skin. It summed up the mood of all the occupants of the city; a nervous foreboding that the increasingly vicious war in Europe was going to get much worse before it got better. It was a dreary April and it was living up to its showery reputation.  
  
The Lower East Side...Jimmy Logan hadn't been in this part of the world for months, almost a year, especially not in this particular street, outside this specific club. The birth place of all the latest strife to have enveloped his life last year. He stood, gazing up from beneath the rim of his pork pie hat, at the blue neon sign, hands in the deep pockets of his trench coat. It had changed since he was last here. But 'Port in a Storm' had a nice---comforting sound to it.  
  
"Would you like to come in sir?"  
  
Logan was snapped from his daydream as the broad, caramel skinned door man asked whether or not he going to actually enter the club or simply stand outside and gape at it, completely gormless. "Sure..." Logan replied most unsurely. "Why not..."  
  
Stepping inside, he shrugged off his coat and took off his hat, handing it to the tall woman with cropped, dark-hair at the cloak room. "Thanks Ma'am." He said as he handed her the wet items.  
  
She smiled at him, but there was something a little unnerving about those pouting red lips. "No problem sir." Logan nodded politely, but as he was about to carry on into the club, he was stopped when the woman said, "By the way, it's Stacy." He looked at her, slightly thrown as he considered whether or not to take the hand she was offering out to him. After a protracted hesitation, he eventually took it, shaking it briefly. But what surprised and amused him is that she gripped it in the manner that he usually would.  
  
With an eyebrow cocked in mild curiosity, he replied, "Logan---pleased ta make yer acquaintance."  
  
"Likewise." She purred and released his hand. With that look of now slightly confused curiosity still on his face, Logan headed for the main room of the club.  
  
*  
  
It hadn't changed too much inside; still the round tables with crisp white cloths and little red 'vase' candle holders in their centres. The cliental hadn't changed either. Still the boys and girls with their cigars and cigarette holders, creating the same old veil of white/grey cloud that settled just above their heads as if it were about to open up and rain on them. Inane chatter filled the room to the soundtrack of Hot Lips Page and His Orchestra on stage, playing a punchy tune. Logan went to the bar, but before he could ask the pretty blonde behind it for a whisky with no ice, he was tapped on the shoulder. Turning around, he found an eagerly grinning boy stood behind him, whom he vaguely recognised.  
  
"Good evening sir---a table has been set out for you by order of the management." The young boy, who Logan had now placed as Tony, enthused.  
  
"Right, I'll just get my---."  
  
"There's no need sir, I'll bring it over to your table." Tony smiled, gesturing his hand out in the direction that he wished Logan to go. So with a slight scowl, for he was deeply suspicious of people who were this nice to him, he snatched up the folded newspaper that was on the bar and followed the boy through the centre of the room, to take up the table he'd occupied months before.  
  
"I'll be back with your drink in a moment sir." With that, he whizzed off.  
  
Logan held his hand up, with an aborted word on his lips, which stopped when the boy disappeared from sight not giving him the chance to tell him what drink he actually wanted. Shaking his head slightly, he opened up the New York Times for April, 27th, 1940. The front page was taken up with a picture of a French town, devastated by German bombing, tactlessly followed up by an advert for washing powder or some such underneath. Logan opened the paper to the second page, ignoring the thoughtlessness of the editors only to find Scott Summers stern face staring back at him. His face crumpled into a scowl again as he read the article that accompanied it.  
  
POLICE CHIEF WHO RID CITY OF MAIN CRIME FAMILIES SET TO QUIT. Scott Summers, Chief of Police has announced his decision to give up his high profile position. The statement was given at a small press conference held in the Cities main police station at 8.00pm eastern time yesterday. Chief Summers, who received national acclaim for removing two mob family heads; Erik Lensherr and Cain Marko during one of the most vicious mob wars the City had ever seen, has decided to pass the mantel onto a successor. It has been strongly rumoured that Detective Henry McCoy is about to receive an unprecedented promotion to the job....  
  
Logan couldn't read anymore, as the paper continued to wax lyrical about Summers great achievements throughout his tenure. Tony came back, laying the whiskey on the rocks down in front of him with a smile on his face. But, after the Summers article, a couple of pages over, what he read there put a smile on his face too.  
  
FORMER CLUB OWNER JAILED FOR TWENTY-FIVE YEARS. Yesterday, at the city courthouse, Judge Chester Pembroke-Jones, sentenced former club owner, Mr Kenny Forge to twenty-five years in the state penitentiary for his involvement and business dealings with various mobs in the city. Mr. Forge, who was caught up in the shootings at the Lensherr mansion in Westchester last year, ( where Mr. Lensherr, his son Pietro Lensherr and Mr. Marko were fatally wounded in the operation)but survived his injuries, had pleaded not guilty to the charges brought against him. Never-the-less, the twelve man jury took just one hour to find him guilty on all counts.  
  
This court case has delivered yet another blow to the former Mayor, Warren Worthington the Third's Presidency candidate hopes, as a former associate of the defendant. Although, it has not been suggested that Mr. Worthington, a notorious campaigner for the crackdown on organized crime in New York, knew of Mr. Forge's illegal dealings. But it has still done untold damage to his hopes of getting into the White House, with several influential patrons withdrawing their support for his campaign...  
  
"Ladies an' Gen'elmen, may I 'ave your attention please!" Logan folded the broadsheet back together loosely and dropped it onto the table. He looked up at the stage to watch Remy do his bit as the professional showman; dapper suite, tasteful black bowtie, red carination in the button hole and all. "I'd jus' like yo' all to put yaw hands together fo' Hot Lip Page an' 'is Orchestra." Remy stepped aside and gesticulated towards the band at which point the audience duly clapped and the various band members of the New Orleans collective held their instruments up to the crowd appreciatively. "Can't wait to see yo' boys playin' back on de Bayou." He shook the band leaders hand, having a brief exchange out of the audience's ear shot, before Hot Lips and his gang left the stage. Then Remy launched into some light banter with the audience, certainly showing a different side to himself than the man Logan had met last year. Obviously, his brush with imprisonment had changed his out look somewhat. Although, god-only- knows what cock and bull cover-up Summers managed to concoct to fulfil his promise to get the guy off the hook. Whatever it was, at least he was showing his gratitude to Ororo now. Ororo...  
  
"...Anyway people, quiet down now 'cause dis de moment ya'll been waitin' fo'." Everybody did, quickly, the hush sweeping through the room like a church on Sunday. Remy smiled, "It's been a long time in comin, but de girl has struggled---an' she made. She made it 'cause she's a fighter." In semi darkness behind him, another group of musicians set up quietly on stage, preparing their instruments quickly. "It is, mah mos'...sincere pleasure, to welcome back to de stage, Ms...Ororo...Munroe." Stepping back from the microphone, Remy led the clapping as from the side of the small, red velvet backdrop stage; a tall elegant figure emerged from the shadows.  
  
Logan's breath caught in his throat, just as it did the first time as she approached the edge of the stage, coming slowly into the spotlight, hair loosely curled and freer than usual. The statuesque line of body was compounded by the flowing white dress that ran down her form like the silk worms that had produced it had wrapped her in it themselves, coming to a lily-like flare at the feet. Its high neckline caressed her collar bone lightly falling down into a slight scoop in the centre. Logan's brow furrowed a little when he thought of what the strategically placed neckline was concealing; that small, perfectly round hard nub that was the only evidence of what had happened to her. But he soon put it from his mind as he looked at her face and she was looking down serenely at him. And when those sapphires locked onto him, there could have been two hundred people in the room, there could have been two thousand. It was simply negligible, because in that moment there was no-one. And Logan had his answer...  
  
"Ladies and Gentlemen," she began with that wonderfully calm voice of hers, as she shifted her gaze over him and out at the crowd, "it's a pleasure to be back, and I would like to start this evening with a song called," taking her jewel-eyes back down to Logan, her mouth curved into a mischievous smile, "It's You or No One."  
  
The band behind started with their gently swinging rhythm, the rasping sound of the drum cymbal being rapped softly, the clarinet ran up and down it's autumn wind-like melody, whistling and weaving through the lulling tune from the piano and the warm, subdued trumpets...  
  
" It's you or no one for me  
  
I'm sure of this  
  
Each time we kiss  
  
Now and forever and when forever is done  
  
You'll find that you are still the one  
  
It's you or no one for me..."  
  
The whole crowd was hypnotised by those familiar velvet tones, feeling them permeate through the skin, warming the body from the inside out. But none more so than Logan. He'd been dreaming of this day for so long now even the reality felt like a dream. So lost was he that he was only dimly aware when a figure came and sat down beside him.  
  
"De girl still got it homme, dere's no doubt about dat." Remy whispered appreciatively.  
  
"Yeah, she sure has." Logan turned to face his rather unwanted companion. "An' if you ever put yer hands anywhere near it bub, yer'll be finding being a thief a little difficult without 'em."  
  
Remy chuckled lightly in reply. After a while, he said, "Look, yo' got no need to worry mon ami, Stormy's made it clear, I know de score." He held his hand out to Logan, "Jus' to say, I'm sorry for causin' all dat crap an' I'm sorry fo' what I did to yo'." The two men shook hands, although one remained sceptical despite the apparent sincerity. But if Ororo had forgiven him, and was trying to help him get his life together, who was he to balk at that? It was just the type of person she was; loyal to those she truly loved. Perhaps to a fault.  
  
"Apology accepted." He muttered gruffly and continued to enjoy the stage show.  
  
"Besides," Remy started after another brief silence, much to Logan's chagrin, a fact that he didn't try all that hard to disguise. "I got uddah t'ings to t'ink about dese days." He turned his head and looked over his shoulder towards the bar. Logan did the same and saw the black-haired cloakroom attendant stood by the bar, looking back at them, sultry. Stacy, if he remembered rightly. He got the picture and it made him feel a little more at ease with Ororo's decision to employ him as the club manager, understanding that it would be easier for business to have a man in that position. Though she still owned it, as it had been one of the few assets of Forge's that the State Department hadn't confiscated as part of his illegal earnings. He was sure she'd be boss, but she'd been away from it for a long while, almost six months.  
  
The song came to an end and the audience were rhapsodic in their delight and appreciation. But after just one song, Ororo said her thank-you's and took her leave of the stage.  
  
* * *  
  
Ororo stood in the office looking out of the window at nothing but the reflection of the room projected back to her. It had been completely redecorated and rearranged since she'd last been in here. Remy had seen to it that not a trace of her old life or Forge remained in here and she was extremely grateful. Getting over what had happened had been hard, excruciatingly so, but she'd done it. She'd survived.  
  
Her hand reached up to the high neckline of her silk dress, slipping over its edge to find the small, hard button-like lump just above her left breast. The middle finger ran over it tentatively at first, until it was joined by her fore and index fingers in its exploration. She did this almost every day, felt the exit wound of the bullet, as if to make sure it was real, to confirm to herself that she'd almost died on that night. After her initial recuperation, Ororo had gone away, alone, on her own insistence. Logan had tried to persuade her otherwise at first but soon came to realise that that was what she needed to do, no matter what the consequences for their fledgling relationship. But before she left, he'd asked her just one question, and now was the time to answer it...  
  
The latch of the office door clicked open and Ororo's heart skipped a beat. Her back was to it and she dared not turn around at first. But ultimately she summoned the courage to do so. For a moment they both regarded each other from the far sides of the room. Then, she strode over to Logan who seemed rooted to the spot at the doorway; the door still half open, letting the noise and music from the club flood the room. As she came right up near him she stretched an arm out over his shoulder, closing the door with a neat click. Bringing her arm back to her she let it rest on his shoulder, encircling her hand around the back of his head whilst he rested his settle on her narrow waist.  
  
"So darlin', am I to take this as a 'yes'?"  
  
Ororo pressed her body closer to him as her other arm came up and wrapped itself around his shoulder and neck. Taking her lips close to his, she whispered, "Yes, this is a most definite yes." And so, they kissed. In a world on the brink of being ripped asunder, two lovers, two people destined to meet, found their own small haven of peace, their island of bliss. For how long it would last, who could say? But to triumph over so much adversity, it would be a hard hearted person not to think a love so strong could overcome any odds.  
  
~The End~ 


End file.
